


You Left all your Dreams on the Threshing Floor

by LadyLondonderry



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fashion & Models, Bullying, Fire, Harry Styles is Marcel, Hospitals, Journalism, M/M, NOTE MARCEL IS HARRY THEY ARE ONLY ONE PERSON, Past Sexual Assault, Spoilers In The Following Tags, fashion magazine, gas leak, once again these tags make it seem worse than i think it actually is?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-25
Updated: 2020-05-26
Packaged: 2021-03-03 02:21:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 26,934
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24377170
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyLondonderry/pseuds/LadyLondonderry
Summary: Marcel will go home after work and he’ll clean his vest and he’ll bleach his shirt and tomorrow will be a new day. He’s got other things that he can spend his time focusing on. How to fit in a third quote onto the cover of the fall issue of Mod Mag without covering any details in the model’s face, for instance.Maybe he’ll switch to gluten-free banana bread for the meeting on Friday. He knows some co-workers likes to eat gluten free, at least.Someone will have to accept his friendship advances eventually.They’ll have to.Right?-Louis Tomlinson gets a job at Mod Magazine. He’s quickly drawn to the one person in the office who won’t give him (or anyone) the time of day; Marcel Styles, Senior Layout Editor.
Relationships: Harry Styles/Louis Tomlinson, Marcel/Louis Tomlinson
Comments: 123
Kudos: 526
Collections: One Direction Big Bang Round 3





	1. Prologue - Sapling

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! It's been a while! The spring is always a hard time to write in. It's a weird one.
> 
> So! This fic!
> 
> Title taken from uhhhh... Esther. Bet you didn't see that one coming.
> 
> Many thanks to Lauren dear Lauren for making the BEAUTIFUL ART in this fic, as well as being supportive and trusting me to get this done even though I spent too long reassuring her that I would definitely get it done.
> 
> Many thanks ALSO to Sus, Kodi, Molly, and Sada for listening to me whine constantly. Or, sometimes, NOT listening to me whine because I would whine a lot in my head but forget to say any of it out loud.
> 
> This fic was started back in 2015, I think. It's different than it was back then. 
> 
> IF U LIKE NICK PLEASE DIVORCE THIS NICK FROM REAL NICK he's not actually TOO bad in this but hes a LIL bad and I FEEL BAD hes not a bad guy and he's got some nice funky hair right now.

_ Sapling  _

[  **sap** -ling ] -  _ noun _

a young tree.

a young person.

* * *

There is a steady rain beating down against the windows of Marcel’s office. 

He has a whole wall of windows, is the thing. Floor to ceiling glass that looks down on the busy traffic below. There isn’t a lot of greenery to be found in the heart of Manchester, and on a day like today where the sky is grey and the world dull, Marcel desperately misses the greenery of London. For a city as large and dense and dirty as London was, there was always a surprising amount of green to be found, tucked between the buildings or growing through boxes on the side of the road. 

Here, everything is brick red and concrete grey, and the one spot of joy comes from the pigeons who have made their home just out of sight. He can’t see them nest, but Marcel sees them take off and land, knows they’ve got a home close by. 

The one spot of joy in an otherwise gloomy world. 

Marcel keeps his head down at his desk as he impatiently waits for his tide-to-go stick to take effect.

He’s grateful that he’s got an office instead of one of the open plan desks. The frosted glass that separates him from the rest of the floor gives him a moment’s reprieve, a chance to catch his breath and re-group.  _ Never _ did Marcel think that he would desire to be separated from his co-workers; if it were up to him, open office plans would be universal. He loves every chance to collaborate, bounce ideas off people, keep up with their day-to-day lives. Community is so important, and being friends with the people he’s around for eight hours (minimum) a day is a necessity for a well-rounded life. Marcel’s read the studies. He loves the studies. He knows the value of friendship, especially now— away from the people he’s spent so much of his life getting to know. 

It’s just— something’s gone wrong. 

He didn’t expect to come into this new position and be immediately loved and respected but— he didn’t expect it to be like this either. 

Today while he was out getting lunch, someone must have taken the liberty of unscrewing his fountain pen. All he had to do was jot down a note that tomorrow’s meeting needed to be postponed by an hour, and now he was considering running home to completely change his outfit. 

Who even pulls pranks like that anymore? It’s not the nineties. Or the sixties. 

The worst part is, he doesn’t even know who it is who would have done it, because it feels a hell of a lot like everyone in the office is against him.

Things are just not going his way.

He tries the bleach pen again, dabbing it at his formerly white sleeve. The ink is smearing more than it’s dissipating. 

Breathing in a shaky breath, Marcel turns and watches the rain patter down. He looks out at the grey landscape and imagines a world in which this really was just an accident. A world in which he didn’t take this position, move to a new city and surround himself with strangers only to be rejected at every turn.

He really isn’t sure where it all went wrong. 

This was his dream job, wasn’t it? Or at least, it was in that direction. He’s young and moving up the ladder faster than he could have hoped. This job is his opportunity to make a difference, to get his ideas out there for the world to see. 

So why does it feel like he’s taken ten steps backward?

There’s a creeping fear inside of him, deep in the pit of his stomach, that’s been growing since his first day moving here. He had been  _ so sure, _ though. He wouldn’t have been offered the position if they didn’t think he was capable of it, right? 

Would he have been offered the position if news of how he got it had gotten out?

Marcel’s been working with everything in him to make this position work. He’s cordial and friendly to everyone he meets, he bakes muffins for all the morning meetings and brings in cookies on Fridays. He’s been working late pretty much every night since he started, trying to make his transition seamless, make sure not too much work gets placed on anyone else’s shoulders that would make them resent him. 

Yet here he is, sitting in his office cleaning ink off of his desk and his clothes and his skin (it’s too late for his skin, he’ll have blue spots for days). Here he is, with no friends to show for it, not a single new contact in his phone. Here he is, alone in a cavern of an office while people just outside banter and laugh and discuss what they’re working on. It seems like a great place to work, and like he’s the outlier that’s ruining it. 

He’s brought in a replacement for the kettle that sparks when the water’s reached boiling. He’s tried not to speak up too much in meetings so that he doesn’t accidentally speak over someone else and upset the natural order of things. He’s beginning to feel like he’s running out of options.

(he’s well past out of options).

There’s a spot of ink on his purple and brown sweater vest. He’ll have to hand-wash it in the sink at home. He’d do it now, before the stain is set, but honestly Marcel isn’t sure that he can face that. There’s always someone around in the break room, and he doesn’t have the strength to face them right now. 

But it’s fine.

He’s fine.

He’ll go home after work and he’ll clean his vest and he’ll bleach his shirt and tomorrow will be a new day. He’s got other things that he can spend his time focusing on. How to fit in a third quote onto the cover of the fall issue of Mod Mag without covering any details in the model’s face, for instance. 

Maybe he’ll switch to gluten-free banana bread for the meeting on Friday. He knows Nick likes to eat gluten free, at least. 

_ Someone _ will have to accept his friendship advances eventually. 

They’ll have to. 

Right?


	2. Part 1 - Duff

Duff

[ duhf] - _noun_

Matted, partly decomposed leaves, twigs, and bark beneath trees and brush.

* * *

Seven in the morning finds Louis standing in front of his mirror, mussing up his hair for the third time since he showered. 

It also finds him with a bowl of dry cereal that he’s been pouring into his mouth between testing different outfits and, of course, mussing up his hair. 

Clifford is laying on Louis’ bed, because while he is concerned about how early Louis is awake and up and moving, he is also a dog, and knows the allures of a nice, warm, recently-vacated bed when he sees one. 

Technically Louis had decided on an outfit last night, going so far as to lay it out on his dresser like it’s his first day of school. That outfit was quickly rejected this morning. After all, first impressions only happen once. Plus, they might take a picture for an I.D. badge, which means whatever decision he makes is going to be branded onto a small piece of plastic that he will have to carry around with him _forever._ Or at least until he gets another job. 

The outfit that he eventually decides on isn’t quite the _full_ tracksuit that he originally had put out— it’s a red, white and black tracktop (Sergio Taccini) and black jeans that are nice enough they can almost pass for work appropriate. 

He swipes his hand through his hair again and then picks up the bowl of coco pops and tips the last of it into his mouth. 

“Cliff,” he says. “Wish me luck. Use your magic powers to make sure I don’t do anything embarrassing today, okay?”

Clifford does not so much as wag his tail. He looks at Louis with disinterest before returning to his apparent slumber.

— 

Louis Tomlinson is _late_ on his very first day of work.

He’s not _very_ late, he was _early_ when he _left_ his flat, it’s just that he’s very much not used to going to work at the same time as, apparently, the rest of the city and after seeing the arrival times for the train he ended up calling an Uber which might have been an even _worse_ decision and, long story short, he’s let in to his building at 8:09, especially stressful since he doesn’t even have a keycard yet and has to rely on the receptionist ringing up to the office to verify him first. 

So much for Clifford’s magic powers. 

He eyes the coffee bar on the ground floor longingly as he passes by. He was going to have time to get coffee! Actually, he was already late. He should have gotten it anyway. 

The lift takes him up to the second floor, as per the instructions that “Pez Ed” left in her email. Perrie had been one of two people who interviewed him when he applied— she had been so friendly and inviting, and even forgiving when Louis had stumbled over his words in his confusion while learning that her full name was not, in fact, Pez Ed as her email tag read. In his defence, a lot of people in the magazine industry went for unpronounceable pseudonyms.

When he steps out, he recognizes her, leaning against a desk opposite. Her own dressed-down appearance of fashionable-but-not-quite-business-casual gives him relief about his own outfit. His own outfit which looks very good on him and will definitely look good in any I.D. pictures he takes today.

“Louis!” Perrie says, waving him over. “Happy first day! Glad you got here relatively on time.”

It’s not sarcasm, her smile is wide and disarming.

“Thanks,” Louis says, walking over to her. “I didn’t realise the morning would be so… busy.”

“Yeah, traffic is always shit,” she agrees, startling a laugh out of him. “Come on, official protocol for new hires is a tour of both floors and then at least four hours of paperwork.”

The tour is nice. The building is shared, their offices only taking up two middle floors. Perrie clearly knows everyone, naming off people and departments as they go by their desks. It’s a beautiful workspace, with an entire wall of west facing windows on one side and a wall of offices on the other. Most of both floors are semi-open office plans, with low walls between each desk. 

“This is Nick’s desk, he does op ed,” Perrie says as they breeze past a section of the desks. “And there’s Jeff. Hi Jeff!” She waves and he gives a half-wave back, hunched over his desk like he’s already been here ten hours. Jeff looks like a typical white guy, and Louis thinks there’s a good chance that he’ll forget what he looks like as soon as they turn the corner. 

“The offices along the side here are mostly editors,” Perrie says as they do inevitably turn the corner (what does Jeff look like again?). “Upstairs are the more senior editors. Give or take, I mean. No office layout is perfect, and I think the business that was here before we were was the upper management of a circus.”

“As in, this place was a mess?”

“Oh yeah no, I mean a literal circus. According to the people I’ve met at the canteen downstairs they were _not_ as fun-loving as one would hope from that profession.” She opens the door of the first office to their left. “Hi Ben!”

“Hi Perry,” Ben says from his desk. His office is big and bright, the entire far wall made up of windows. He also looks fairly generic, all things considered. These people work in fashion, where is their sense of style?

The next office contains a woman named Cheryl who’s on a conference call but waves to them when they pop in. Louis wonders if he’s actually supposed to remember the names of all these people. 

“And that one’s Styles, the layout editor,” Perrie says when they move on, gesturing to the next office. “And this one on the end is yours!”

Louis frowns. The light is clearly on in the office they just passed, he can tell from the frosted glass that runs along the top and bottom. Maybe whoever it is doesn’t like being disturbed?

Still, he’s distracted quickly by his _own office_ at the very end. It’s half the size of the others, and there isn’t a wall of windows like the ones he’s seen — in fact his office looks more like a converted large broom closet. But it’s got a plaque on the door already that reads _Tomlinson — Copy Editor._

“Obviously it’s not _great,”_ Perrie hedges. “It’s sort of a seniority system. When another editor moves out you’ll get the next best office.”

“What about the people who work at the desks without an office?” Louis asks.

“Oh, they stay there,” Perrie says with a wave of her hand. “All the journalists have their desks together in the central area, we reserve the offices for department heads and editors. Journalists spend all day shit-talking each other anyway, and the more of them that are out there at each other’s desks, the less that are inside _my_ office complaining about how I pulled their story because it was sexist and bad reporting.”

“Ah,” says Louis. 

“Yeah. No offence, but sometimes it’d be nice if a few less men worked here.”

“No offence taken,” Louis says. He grew up with all sisters. He’s very used to such comments. 

The upper floor mirrors the one they’ve just toured, with the exception of the break room at the end of the lower floor (which on the upper floor is a file room that looks dusty and full of junk). Perrie ends the tour with the aforementioned hours of paperwork; six packets to fill out and the promise that when he’s done she’ll get his picture taken for his I.D. (yes, Louis made good outfit choices!). She sends him off to locate his office again and Louis just hopes he can find _hers_ again when the time comes. 

His own office back on the lower floor seems especially small once he closes the door behind him, but he’s so excited about the idea of having his own space that it doesn’t really bother him. The first thing he does after dumping the stacks of forms on his desk is get out his phone and send pictures of his surroundings to the family group chat (and to Niall). 

He’s full of nervous energy but also _not_ full of coffee, so after getting through about seven pages of signatures he thinks about the break room… nothing wrong with stopping down there to see if there’s tea he could steal, right? Just a few minutes. 

The break room is in the style of a galley kitchen. Lined up along the counters are all the things that Louis would have expected; a microwave that looks like it’s never been cleaned, a toaster, a metal electric kettle that looks almost greasy, a Keurig, and there at the far end— a pristine ceramic blue and white kettle plugged into the far outlet. 

_Yes please,_ Louis thinks to himself, finding the cabinet full of P.G. Tips (good enough) and flipping up the lever for the kettle. 

There’s a large number of mugs in the cabinets above the sink, and Louis is pretty sure that whichever one he takes will end up actually belonging to someone, but hey, if they didn’t want someone else using their mug they should have just kept it at their desk. 

He leans against the counter as he waits for the kettle to get to a boil and gets out his phone to see if there are any replies to the pictures he’s sent. His sisters _should_ be in class which of course means that they’ve sent a fair amount of emojis in response, and his mum sent an earnest congratulations.

Niall, on the other hand. 

**Niall:** _So give me the info_ _  
_ **Niall:** _How many hot guys_ _  
_ **Niall:** _And any hot girls that you could bring to the pub_

 **Louis:** _I don’t even remember the names of half the people I’ve met_ _  
_ **Louis:** _And so far only like two guys are even marginally attractive_ _  
_ **Louis:** _Very disappointing tbh like this is a fashion magazine I expected better_

Niall has apparently been waiting for him to respond.

 **Niall:** _Thats sexist_ _  
_ **Niall:** _Or misogynist?_ **  
** **Niall:** _Fuck whats the one with the standards of the men_

 **Louis:** _I dunno but i’m gay and all these guys are boring_

 **Niall:** _Well that’s a disappointment. Back to picking up guys at the club_

 **Louis:** _I have literally never done that. YOU did that and then said you were my wingman right before you went home and slept with him._

 **Niall:** _Not my fault you weren’t interested_

Louis rolls his eyes and doesn’t deign to comment on an argument they’ve had a dozen times before. Niall is a terrible wingman.

The kettle clicks off and Louis fills his mug, stealing milk that he hopes is communal from the small refrigerator. 

— 

Hours of paperwork wear on a guy, and to be honest, Louis’s much more interested in the small little mystery that is his new office neighbour. After finishing off his cuppa and getting through the first of the two stacks, he spends a fair amount of time debating whether to go exploring. 

Of course, he’s never backed down from a challenge like that. This is his first day! He should be acquainting himself with everyone he’s going to be working with, right?

Leaving the confines of his own office, he realises that it’s probably around lunch, since a lot of the desks seem to be vacated. Striding over to the mystery office it occurs to him that the _Styles_ on the nameplate is probably a last name, rather than a title, if it follows the same pattern as his own. 

Styles… Styles. Why does that ring a bell?

_Oh shit._

Louis scurries back to his office and closes the door. Grabbing his phone because Perrie says the I.T. department hasn’t set up his desktop yet (figures), he googles _Marcel Styles Mod Magazine._

Seeing the headlines that pop up confirms that he was right. Marcel Styles! Marcel, one of the youngest people to rise through the ranks to Senior Layout Editor in only a few years. Marcel, who was praised across Britain for the “innovative and exploratory” pieces he created while still at university, and shocked the fashion community by choosing to follow a journalism path instead of taking one of the jobs offered by various fashion houses across the country. 

His office borders one belonging to Marcel Styles? Holy shit. 

Well, now he’s suddenly feeling _much_ more interested.

Abandoning his paperwork once again, he leaves his office and walks confidently next door.

The door is shut, but the lights are still on, so he takes a chance and knocks on the door _one-two-three_ before pushing it open. Happy face. Good impressions. He can do this.

The office is the same size as all the others (bar his own), light and airy with the wall of windows at the back. He notices quickly that the wall to his right is a corkboard material, covered in what looks like magazine covers, layout pages and a lot of photographs. On the opposite wall are a few bookcases and a small wingback chair — it looks like one of the stylish ones he’s seen and considered picking up from IKEA. The whole room feels rather busy and hectic. 

Then, of course, in the middle of everything is the man himself, sitting behind a heavy wooden desk covered in papers and computers. 

“Hey,” says Louis, holding out his hand smiling a bright, inviting smile. He’s worked on this smile. It’s a good smile, he’s confident of that. “I’m Louis, My office is going to be the one next to yours?”

The man looks up. He doesn’t smile. He doesn’t shake Louis’s hand. “Marcel,” he says. He’s got his hair slicked back in a fashion that Louis assumes must just not be in season yet (because… it’s very outdated looking, and surely someone working at a fashion magazine is going to be styling himself up to date?), a pair of coke bottle glasses are perched on his nose and a sweater vest hugs his chest over a plain gingham button-up.

“Um,” says Louis, lowering his hand. “Anyway, I just wanted to say hello. You’re the senior layout editor, right?”

“I am,” Marcel says, and he seems to be… outright glaring now? “You can just Dropbox your articles when they’re done. That’s what everyone does. I’ll let you know if something’s wrong.”

“Right,” says Louis, beginning to feel uncomfortable with the prickly vibes Marcel is giving off. “Well, my door is always open. Hit me up if you ever need a proper tea made, it’s my specialty.”

“Right,” Marcel says. He doesn’t look keen to take up Louis’s offer. “I have something I was in the middle of, so if you don’t mind.”

“Of course!” Louis takes a step back. “Sure! I’ll just, um, be next door!” 

He scurries from the room, finally giving into the flush of embarrassment that heats his face up. This is… not what Louis expected out of the famed Marcel Styles. Now he’s miffed and mystified and needs more tea. 

— 

Louis holds out on making more tea until after he’s tracked Perrie down for his photo I.D. He figures it’s probably good to look like he’s getting work done on his first day. 

So it’s mid-afternoon by the time he’s back in the break room, after a lunch down in the canteen with Perrie and Ben (and god, Louis had already forgotten who he was). 

This time when he comes in, there are already three people standing around waiting for the kettle to boil. They’re using the greasy-looking metal one. Certainly not Louis’ first choice but he worries that trying to use both kettles at once would short circuit the room. 

“Any chance there’s enough water in there for a fourth?” he asks, holding up his (stolen) mug from earlier.

“Probably, since Jeff doesn’t even drink tea,” one of them (Nick? Nick with the tall hair) says, motioning to Jeff. 

Jeff shrugs. “Just because I don’t drink tea doesn’t mean I shouldn’t get to have a tea break,” he says. 

The third person, a girl Louis doesn’t think he’s met yet, smiles at him. “You’re Louis, right? New copy editor?”

“That’s me,” Louis says.

She nods. “Camille,” she says. “Saw you’re in Marcel’s old office. Really got the short end of the stick there.”

Louis smiles politely. “An office is an office,” he says. “Considering I come from about five different internships where I was lucky to get a shared desk, I think I’m really moving up in the world.”

“God, I didn’t think anyone would move Marcel out of that office though,” Jeff says. “I figured they’d put him in there on purpose.”

“On purpose?” Louis asks, trying to sound less interested than he is. It’s not good to gossip, leaves a bad impression and all that But also, he desperately wants the gossip.

“Well he’s not exactly a popular guy,” Nick hedges. “And he used to have a bigger office before he got moved into that small one.”

“Yeah, but that was because he was hired so fast,” Camille says. “He’s weird, though. Remember when he was bringing in those pastries every morning?”

“He must have bought out an entire bakery,” Jeff says. “I swear so much sugar got thrown away when he started working here.”

“Sorry, he brought in pastries every morning?” Louis asks. That doesn’t _sound_ like the behavior of a proper weirdo. It sounds more like someone Louis would like to be around more. He’s a fan of pastries.

“Yeah, like,” Nick leans back against the counter. “It’s all well and good, but it was _every day,_ you know? Like he was trying to bribe us to like him or something. 

_I think that’s called trying to be friends,_ Louis thinks but doesn’t say. It feels like he’s missing something. 

“Anyway, he’s just… There’s something about him,” says Jeff. “Comes in and starts trying to change everything. That’s his kettle in the corner,” he thumbs over at the ceramic one that Louis’ been using. “Like, what, does he think that the one we already had wasn’t good enough for him? Anyway, he just, he was hired under suspicious circumstances is all. Younger and less experienced than the rest of us, hired above us and probably thinks he’s better because of it.”

“Whatever, it doesn’t even matter though,” Camille interrupts. “He’s different now, just keeps to himself, mostly. Probably better for it.”

Louis frowns and nods and tries to look like he’s not judging them on the inside. _Is_ he judging them? He’s not even sure. There’s a whole office dynamic that he’s just been thrust into the middle of, and making enemies on day one wasn’t exactly part of his plan. 

Maybe it wasn't part of Marcel’s plan either, by the sounds of it. 

So he plays nice and changes the subject. 

“So what else should I know about working here?” he asks. “What great secrets did I miss on the official office tour?”

“Pub nights on Fridays!” Nick says, turning to busy himself with the kettle as it clicks off. “It’s tradition and since you’re new the first round is definitely going to be on you.”

“Hey, shouldn’t that at least wait until my first paycheck?” Louis laughs. “I’m not exactly made of money over here.”

“You won’t be _after_ your paycheck either,” Jeff says, earning himself a collective laugh.

Louis excuses himself not long after, although no one else seems like they’re in any hurry to return to their desks. He passes by Styles’ door on the way back to his again and thinks about what he’s heard.

He wonders about what he’s missing in the story about Marcel, or if he’s just as… rude? Pushy? As everyone seems to think he is. 

— 

Arriving home to a large dog who is not used to being without Louis for so long means Louis has to almost immediately leave again to run Clifford out of his pent up energy. 

“I should probably find someone to watch you,” Louis tells him. Clifford pays him no mind, intent on a squirrel who is watching them warily from up a tree. 

“Maybe Niall would be willing to walk you on his lunches,” Louis muses.

Clifford barks.

“Yeah, I worry he’d forget to feed you too,” Louis agrees. He takes his phone out of his pocket and swipes to his conversation with Niall, typing as Clifford pulls him in random directions. He has Google Maps, he’ll be able to find his way back. 

**Louis:** _Okay you want the info?_

 **Niall:** _Yes_ _  
_ **Niall:** _Of course I do_ _  
_ **Niall:** _Who do you take me for, someone who doesn’t love gossip?_

 **Louis:** _There’s a guy at work_

 **Niall:** _Vague_ _  
_ **Niall:** _Continue_

 **Louis:** _He’s well known_ _  
_ **Louis:** _Or at least I know him_  
**Louis:** _He was super young a few years ago when he got this editor job_ _  
_ **Louis:** _And like all these articles were about how he was expected to do great things_

 **Niall:** _I hear a but coming_

 **Louis:** _He’s a prick_

 **Niall:** _I mean that doesn’t sound very unusual_

 **Louis:** _Yeah but like_ _  
_ **Louis:** _EVERYONE hates him_ _  
_ **Louis:** _Like hello Louis welcome to your first day at work let’s all shit talk this guy together_ _  
_ **Louis:** _Like there’s office gossip and then there’s office hatred_

 **Niall:** _Did he commit a crime?_

 **Louis:** _I mean_ _  
_ **Louis:** _It sounds like he made a lot of sweets_ _  
_ **Louis:** _And brought them in??_

 **Niall:** _Not a crime_ _  
_ **Niall:** _A delicious treat could never be a crime_ _  
_ **Niall:** _Unless it’s made with like. Human flesh. Were the treats vegan? Then ur safe_

 **Louis:** _Shut up_ _  
_ **Louis:** _I just fucking dont know_ _  
_ **Louis:** _Like why the fuck people don’t like him_ _  
_ **Louis;** _But then again maybe I do because I met him and he was rude?????_

 **Niall:** _It sounds like you’re overthinking it_ _  
_**Niall:** _But maybe try to get in his good graces anyway_ _  
_**Niall:** _Maybe he will make you treats_ _  
_**Niall:** _Then you can share them with me_

 **Louis:** _Lmao_ _  
_ **Louis:** _Fuck off_

 **Niall:** _Send me treats pls I am grading papers and it is hell_ _  
_ **Niall:** _Let me drown myself in sugar_

 **Louis:** _Best of luck there_ _  
_ **Louis:** _I’m going to go home and spend an hour picking out tomorrow’s perfect outfit because people don’t know me well enough yet to know how I dress_

 **Niall:** _Dork_ __  
**Niall:** _Wear that purple thing_   
**Niall:** The one I like

 **Louis:** _;)_

— 

It turns out that Louis simply cannot stop thinking about Marcel. 

Throughout his first week, Louis glances at that closed door. He walks by it on the way to the break room, on the way to talk to Perrie about why his computer isn’t recognizing his password, on his way to training session after training session. Everyone here seems so talkative and friendly, albeit with a heavy penchant for gossip, right up until he hits that heavy closed door. 

Maybe, he thinks to himself over and over, maybe Marcel is just a loner. Someone who does his best work in private, without the distraction of others. 

He can think that to himself as much as he wants, but he knows it’s not true. 

He knows it isn’t true because, even though Louis can barely remember anyone’s name, even though he still can’t get Adobe Pro installed successfully, and even though no one can give him a straight answer on what the wifi password is, he’s still heard person after person make offhand comments about Marcel. 

Like, why?

Why has he heard from so many how Marcel’s clothing is out of date, his edits make the magazine look thrown together, he’s suspiciously nice, he’s terribly rude, he’s not cut out for his job, he tries too hard to be everyone’s friend.

(Well. He’s certainly not trying particularly hard to be _Louis’_ friend).

Maybe, he thinks to himself as his mind goes in circles for the hundredth time, there’s just something about Marcel that he hasn’t realised Something nefarious. The only interaction Louis’ managed to have with him was that one short, cold albeit generally harmless conversation when he introduced himself. Maybe if Louis talked to him more, he’d be able to see the terrible person everyone seems to be talking about. 

So he tries again. 

He knocks _one-two-three_ on Marcel’s office door before opening it and letting himself in. Marcel’s sitting at that big wooden desk, with that glorious view behind him, head buried in his work. 

“Hello,” Louis says brightly. “I finished this set and thought I’d hand deliver them, since I’m so close by and wanted an excuse to stretch my legs.”

He hands over a flashdrive, setting it on top of a stack of papers on Marcel’s desk, since Marcel doesn’t seem to be particularly inclined to take it from him. 

“Most people just email,” Marcel says. He’s staring down at the flashdrive, not meeting Louis’ gaze.

“I’m more of a social guy,” Louis says.

That, apparently, is what makes Marcel look up. _“Everybody_ emails,” he says. 

There’s something missing in his eyes. Louis can’t help but feel that this flat, lifeless way Marcel speaks, even argues, can’t possibly be who he really is. 

“Well,” Louis says. “Maybe it’s time for a change around here, then.” 

He smiles his widest, brightest smile and does a little half-wave before leaving. He tries to act normal up until he hears Marcel’s door click shut behind him, then he jumps into his own office and shuts the door. 

Okay, so. Fact-finding mission complete. Fact one; Marcel does _not_ seem to like him.

Fact two; Louis thinks he wants Marcel to like him. 

Fact three; more fact-finding missions are necessary. 

— 

Being a copy editor is a great job for someone who loves puzzles. 

Louis cares about fashion a lot, but the fact of the matter is, being a copy editor has very little to do with actually _contributing_ to fashion, and a lot more to do with finding and correcting all of someone’s mistakes. 

Thankfully, Louis is very good at puzzles and also finding people’s mistakes. 

It doesn’t take long for him to get into a good pattern with work. Grabbing a coffee from the Pret down the road because the ground floor canteen is a little shit, getting in (relatively) on time, answering the new emails in his inbox before going to his queue of pieces he has to work through from oldest to newest. Some people _definitely_ have a harder time with punctuation than others, and _some_ people are still using style rules from twenty years ago. 

What he’s been trying to do while adjusting to this new life of his (poor Clifford isn’t happy about this bit) is he’s been staying just a little bit later every day. 

Most people, as soon as the clock hits five, start packing up their desks (Jeff it’s more like 4:50). A few stragglers tend to work until closer to 5:30, finishing up things that they must find urgent in some way. 

Louis, however, has now stayed as late once as 6:30, and Marcel’s door is still closed, his silhouette still visible through the frosted glass. 

_Six thirty!_ Why would he possibly choose to stay so late?

One option Louis has considered is that Marcel is secretly homeless and sleeping in his office, but he discarded that idea quickly enough. He’s getting paid enough that Louis can’t imagine he wouldn’t be able to afford a place to live, and besides, he has enough different sweater vests that he must have a closet of them _somewhere._

He tests it out on a day when he’s still there at five (Louis has mostly been killing time, because he’s not getting paid to work this late). He takes another flash drive out of his desk and pulls a few of his completed projects onto it. Walking over to Marcel’s office as the motion sensitive lights in the main room flicker back to life, he knocks _one-two-three_ before pushing the door open. 

Marcel is there, not at his desk for once but sitting with his chair up against the windows at the back of the office. He has a camera in his hands, a big, clunky, professional-looking thing, and it’s pointed down at the bottom corner of the windows.

Where, if Louis is seeing this correctly, there is a pigeon roosting just outside.

Marcel’s head whips around, and he almost drops the camera he’s holding. Louis suddenly feels bad, like he shouldn’t be intruding. 

“Sorry I’m here so late,” he says, trying to keep his voice cheerful and light. “Was just going to drop off my finished projects from the last couple days.

“Yeah,” says Marcel faintly. He’s lowered the camera to his lap, but isn’t moving closer. “Um. Yes. That’s fine.”

 _That’s fine_ is a far cry from _everybody Dropboxes_ or _everyone just emails._ That’s progress! Louis smiles widely, then he takes a chance. “What are you photographing?” he asks, bending forward slightly as if the pigeon just outside the window isn’t totally obvious to him.

But Marcel frowns, tucks the camera behind his chair like a three year old refusing to share his toys. “Nothing,” he says. “I was— I was testing the lenses. For a shoot later in the week. It’s not mine.”

He’s glaring again. Whatever Louis caught Marcel doing is something Marcel very much does not want to be caught doing. 

“Okay,” says Louis. “I mean, photography is really cool. It’s a great form of expression, you know?”

Marcel doesn’t respond. 

“Well, I’m going to head out for the day,” Louis thumbs the open door behind him. “Was nice seeing you!”

He slips back out and then into his own office, slouching into his chair when the door shuts. 

What the _fuck?_

Fact finding mission number two complete. Fact one; Marcel owns a camera.

Fact two; Marcel photographs… pigeons?

Fact three; Marcel really doesn’t want Louis to know that.

Fact finding mission result; Louis Tomlinson has decided that he wants to learn more about Marcel Styles. A man everyone hates who apparently brings sweets and presents to work and photographs pigeons when no one is looking. There is clearly more to this man than meets the eye, and Louis is nothing if not a meddler.


	3. Part 2 - Virga

Virga

[  **vur** -g _ uh  _ ] -  _ noun _

Streaks of water drops or ice particles falling out of a cloud and evaporating before reaching the ground

* * *

Louis’s first month of work comes and goes in a blur of learning names, getting lost, and locking himself out of his new work computer twice because the facial recognition refuses to believe he’s the same person after styling his hair. 

He’s ready to go home and relax come his third Friday evening. Finally, a job where he doesn’t have to work weekends! Just as he’s packing his laptop into his back, however, the door to his office swings open and Ben walks in.

“Louis!” he says, naturally loud voice filling Louis’s small office. “The mates are all going to The Red Lion. You’re coming, right?”

“Um,” says Louis. “I guess?”

He’d really rather be at home, kicking his feet up and watching Eastenders until his eyes glaze over, but it’s probably a good idea to go and make a good impression. He doesn’t want to be seen as standoffish among his brand new coworkers and possible friends. 

“Great!” says Ben. “That’s the spirit! First round’s on you!”

“I should say not,” Louis says, shrugging on his bag. “I’ve just seen how much my first paycheck is”

Ben laughs. “That’s what I like about you,” he says. “You’re the funny one.”

Louis really hopes the funny one is a good thing.

— 

Apparently the group that assembles at The Red Lion varies from week to week, but when Louis arrives, Ben makes a round of introductions for the table; most of them Louis has already met, but is thankful for the refresher. 

“This is Camille, Perrie, Jade, Jeff, and Nick.”

They’re a rambunctious crowd, and from the looks that a few of the bartenders are giving them, it’s clearly a common occurrence. Louis grabs a pint and sits himself between Logan and the girl Jade, whom he’s only met in passing. 

“Hello new boy,” Jade says. She works on the upper floor, so Louis rarely sees her. “Survived your first month, I see. Or, week? Time passes strangely. We haven’t scared you off yet?”

“Not a chance,” Louis says. “This is my dream job, I can’t be scared off that easily.”

“It’s everybody’s dream job,” Nick says, leaning back and taking a drink. “Everybody who’s anybody wants to work for Mod Mag. What an unoriginal dream you have.”

Louis snorts. Once he learned Nick’s last name - Grimshaw - he had made the connection to one of the most prolific writers for the Mod Mag website. Nick has it all. “What’s your dream then, if mine is so bad?”

“Me?” Nick asks. “Simple, really. I dream of being the morning DJ on BBC Radio 1.”

Louis laughs, and much of the table within earshot roll their eyes.

“You’ll learn that he’s serious,” Jade says, leaning over to him. “Star of Mod and he wants to go to government-sponsored drive-time radio.” She shakes her head. “Something wrong with him, that’s for sure.”

“Oi,” says Nick. “I heard that!”

“I don’t care!” Jade singsongs back. 

The evening passes rather quickly, much to Louis’s relief. He’s more than ready to head home and fall into bed at the first given opportunity, but at least, he reasons, he has the rest of the weekend to catch up on sleep. 

“So Louis,” Ben says as their group starts to quiet down. They’ve all had quite a few to drink but mostly that just seems to increase how handsy they are with each other. Louis’s scooted his chair just out of Nick’s reach (nothing against him, he’s a good looking bloke, Louis just isn’t looking to start something his first month on the job - it doesn’t sound like a good idea).

“So Ben,” Louis replies. Ben seems to be the kind of guy who rises to the top just because no one else on his level wants to deal with him anymore. Louis personally is glad he doesn’t have to actually work with him often.

“How’s your first month shaped up, then? Everything you’ve dreamed? Found some models to lure home with you yet?”

Nick snorts before Louis even has the chance to answer. “Ridiculous,” he says. “Ben, you’re about the only straight man in the fashion industry, why on earth would you assume Tommo here is a straight slag like you?”

“Hey,” Jeff says. But quietly, like he doesn’t really want to be part of this conversation.

Louis, to his credit, has had as many beers as a night out at uni. He pulls a face, wrinkling his nose. “Nick’s right,” he says. “I’m super fucking gay. But also,” he points to Nick. “Models can be lads too, don’t be sexist.”

“You tell him!” Jade and Perrie cheer. 

“Whatever, at least I still have Jeff on my team,” Ben says, slinging an arm around him.

(“Not much of a team,” Jeff mutters, but no one pays him much attention). 

Ben downs the last of his beer, one arm still around Jeff. “Hey, actually, what a good opportunity.” He points the empty pint glass in his hand in Louis’ direction. “You should sleep with Marcel! Maybe that would help him unclench for once.”

“I wouldn’t,” says Jade. “You couldn’t pay me to sleep with that grouch.”

“Jade, you’re a lesbian.”

_ “Still,” _ she says. 

“Oi,” says Nick. “Don’t be mean to Marcel. It’s not his fault he’s got a stick up his arse.”

“But what’s his  _ problem?” _ Louis asks. He can feel the building urge to slag off Marcel, the way everyone else is used to doing. It’s sixth form peer pressure all over again, and Louis mentally wants to slap himself out of it. But he also wants to make friends, and it's  _ true _ Marcel is standoffish.

Nick shrugs. “Who knows?” he says. “He’s not that bad, really.”

“Not that bad?” Ben scoffs. “He shits on my web layout on a weekly basis. The man hates me.”

“He’s the layout editor,” Louis says with a frown. “He’s editing the layout.”

Jade and Perrie, practically sitting in each other’s laps at this point, erupt into laughter. They’re sitting at the far end of the table and not paying much attention to anyone but each other. “Sounds like you just suck at your job, Ben!” Jesy yells. 

“Anyway,” says Perrie. “Marcel just isn’t a people person. He’s got that special kettle because he doesn’t want to touch our nasty community kettle”

“Maybe he’s a germaphobe,” Jeff says thoughtfully. No one pays him any attention.

“Think he even tried to throw out ours once,” Nick says. “Back when he was bringing in scones and shit every morning. As if he doesn’t work with  _ models.” _

“You’re not a model,” Louis points out. “And personally I’d  _ love _ a scone in the morning.”

He feels weirdly defensive of Marcel, and he’s not even sure  _ why,  _ it’s not like the man has been in the least bit friendly. “He never comes to pub night then?”

Ben snorts. “As if we’d ever invite him. We’re here to have a  _ good _ time, after all.”

Suddenly, Louis is tired. “I think I should be heading home,” he says. 

Perrie and Jade immediately rush to say their goodbyes first and loudest, their bubbly drunk selves erupting into giggles and falling back into one another. 

“Need someone chivalrous to walk you home?” Nick asks, motioning as if to stand and join him. 

“No, I’m good,” Louis says. “Bus stop’s just at the end of the street, innit. I promise I won’t get mugged.”

He pays his tab and sets off, the air outside chilly enough that he pulls his collar up to shield himself from the wind. The sky is dark, but it’d have to be a miracle to spot stars from the middle of London. Taxis and Ubers zoom past as if they’ve got places to be, while busses lumber by like they couldn’t be bothered.

He actually has to walk three blocks to get to the stop he needs to send him straight home, but with the chill in the air it doesn’t feel worth it to pull out his headphones for music, instead letting the quiet buzz that is city nights invade his ears and thoughts. 

Honestly, he should just put Marcel out of his mind. They are nothing to one another, just coworkers who don’t even need to cross paths. Marcel has apparently made it so that he never has to cross paths with anyone - he clearly wants to be left alone.

The problem is that Louis is never good at doing that. Like the cat that lived under their bushes when he was a child, he  _ craves _ invading their space. Snickers lived out the end of his days very happily once Louis was able to lure him into the house with cat treats and cheese. He knows he shouldn’t try to do the same for Marcel.

But Louis’s a bit drunk and the night is in the murmuring magical hour, the lights along the tunnels of the underground casting enchanting glows, and Louis really  _ really _ wants to figure out what happened with Marcel.

—

It takes Louis another week to formulate a plan. 

Technically, it takes Louis another week to formulate a  _ second _ plan, because his first plan is to wait for Marcel to emerge from his office and then to engage him in conversation that will, surely, make him come out of his shell. Unfortunately, that plan fails on every account because Marcel is at work before Louis, and as has already been discovered, no matter how late Louis hangs around, Marcel is still working away in his office. He also rarely if ever comes out, and none of those times coincide with when Louis is out of his  _ own _ office.

_ Curse  _ his luck to have landed an office instead of a desk in the open office plan.

So. Plan number two. 

Louis knocks  _ one-two-three _ before pushing Marcel’s door open, not waiting for a response. He’s met with a wall of noise for a fraction of a second before Marcel scrambles for his computer and the room falls into silence.

“Hello,” Louis says. He’s trying not to act like he jumped out of his skin when he opened the door - these walls must be  _ really _ soundproof. “Hope you don’t mind me dropping in.”

“Actually-” Marcel says, frowning deeply and pushing his glasses up his nose. 

“Fan of classical, huh?” Louis tries to casually lean on the desk, holding the brown paper bag he has to his chest. “My mum loves some classical on a Sunday. Listen to Radio 3 all day and switch it over just in time for The Archers, that was our tradition.”

“Um,” says Marcel. “Right, so what are-”

“I brought scones!” Louis plonks the bag down on Marcel’s desk, hoping the cream doesn’t leak onto anything important. “Didn’t make them myself, don’t have the brains for that sort of thing. But I brought them from that little place down the street! The one with all the sugar mice in the window?”

“Le Cochon d’Inde?”

“That’s the place!” Louis smiles wide, trying to look friendly. 

Marcel doesn’t return the look. He glances down at the bag and then back to his computer screen. “The break room is down the hall, you know. People might appreciate them more there.”

Louis frowns. “These ones are just for us,” he says. “Everyone else can find their own breakfast sugar.”

“I’m not hungry,” Marcel says, and Louis can see the magazine layout on his screen. “Thanks.”

“I’ll just leave them here,” Louis says, backing out of the office. “In case you get hungry later!”

After the door closes behind him, Louis lets out a sigh. Well, it could have gone better. But he’s not giving up yet! The first goal is a smile from Marcel. The second goal… Well, Louis isn’t sure he’ll reach the first one so he’s not going to think that far ahead. 

— 

One time, years ago, the boy Louis had been dating had made them both take the Five Love Languages test. Louis’ love language, it turns out, had been quality time. His boyfriend’s… well Louis isn’t actually sure. He wasn’t that interested in him anyway. But the love languages fascinated him, and to this day he still makes a habit of trying to figure out what people’s love languages are. 

The thing is, from what everyone else seems to be saying about when Marcel first arrived in the office, Louis is pretty sure that Marcel’s love language is gifts. A new tea kettle, fresh sweets every day… 

Louis can do gifts. He can do gifts very well. 

_ One-two-three _ Louis knocks before pushing open the door to Marcel’s office. There’s no music blasting this time, and when Marcel glances up he simply gives Louis a blank expression before going back to his work. He’s got printouts of the magazine spread across his desk like he’s trying to solve an ancient mystery in connecting them.

“Hello!” Louis says, pulling out a hopeful smile. He holds up one of the two to-go cups of tea in his hands before carefully placing it on one of the few blank spots on Marcel’s desk. “I wasn’t sure if you were a black tea sort of person, but I figured everybody likes a good blueberry herbal.”

Marcel scrunches up his nose. “Is that from Starbucks?”

“It is,” Louis says, taking a sip of his own (it’s too hot, he tries to spit it back into his cup without being too noticeable). “Do you have somewhere you’d prefer?”

Marcel frowns at the tea as if it has personally offended him in some way. He frowns at it for a long while, and then frowns up at Louis. 

“I like black tea,” he says. 

He says it slowly, like he’s afraid it’s a trick question. The thick rims of his coke bottle glasses make his eyes look especially wide, even when he’s being so serious.

“I can bring black tea next time!” Louis chirrups, inwardly excited that he’s making progress.

“No!” Marcel cuts him short. “No, that’s fine. I don’t need any.”

“Nobody  _ needs _ tea,” Louis says. “But everybody  _ wants  _ it.” 

Then, he makes a speedy exit before Marcel can say something to ruin the moment.

— 

Two days later (trying not to move too fast and push his luck), Louis arrives with an english breakfast tea from Pret (because the Starbucks line looked too long). He knocks  _ one-two-three _ on Marcel’s door before barging in and putting the cup carefully among the many papers piled on his desk. 

“English Breakfast,” he announces, feeling  _ very _ proud of himself. 

Marcel looks at the drink.

Marcel looks at Louis.

He frowns. 

This is becoming a pattern. 

“I didn’t ask for this,” he says. 

“I know,” Louis says. “But you didn’t  _ not _ ask for it.”

The corners of Marcel’s mouth pinch down. “I can’t…” He reaches under his desk. “How much do I owe you?”

“Oh, nothing,” says Louis. “It’s on me.”

Marcel’s face seems to be going through a long emotional journey and eventually lands on blank. “You shouldn’t waste your money,” he says.

“That’s what my mum always tells me, too,” Louis laughs. He drinks his own English Breakfast tea. It’s not as good as the Yorkshire tea he keeps in his desk. 

Marcel seems to have decided this was the end of their conversation, turning back to his desktop and apparently choosing to pretend that Louis isn’t there.

That’s fine. This feels like a victory. 

— 

Louis brings Marcel tea several more times. Marcel does not smile at him. But he does sometimes nod. This seems good? 

Niall thinks he’s crazy. 

Louis thinks the mission is going well.

— 

**Louis:** _ Okay I need a phase two _

**Niall:** _ What was phase one _

**Louis:** _ Tea _ _  
_ **Louis:** _ But my budget is running low _

**Niall:** _ Wait phase one was JUST bringing him tea _ _  
_ **Niall:** _ Aren’t there tea bags in your break room _ _  
_ **Niall:** _ Hold on do u have a budget specifically for wooing your crap boss _

**Louis:** _Not my boss_ _  
_**Louis:** _Well actually sort of my boss I guess he does receive everything I’m working on_ _  
_**Louis:** _Does that make him my boss???_ _  
_**Louis:** _Holy shit he IS my boss he’s the layout editor_

**Niall:** _ R u a dumbass m8 _

**Louis:** _ Shut up _ _  
_ **Louis:** _ No one treats him like a boss!!!! It’s confusing!!!! _ _  
_ **Louis:** _ He’s like. They act like he’s the lowest on the ladder or something it’s so weird _

**Niall:** _ Maybe u should treat him like a boss _

**Louis:** _ Niall what does that even mean _ __  
**Louis:** _ It sounds dirty when u say it like that _ _  
_ **Louis:** __ Niall ???

— 

Louis  _ is _ the copy editor, and Marcel  _ is _ the layout editor, and while Louis’ learned everything about his job from Perrie, she’s actually HR.

So, long story short, Marcel is his boss.

Oh no, does his boss think that he’s coming on to him? 

Actually wait, all he’s done is deliver tea. That’s a nice thing to do for people, right? Just a normal nice thing?

Louis has this argument with himself for several more minutes as he stands in his shower and completely neglects to do any actual washing. He can hear Clifford scratching piteously at the other side of the door and takes pity on him eventually, turning the water off and stepping out to dry off. 

Maybe he should act  _ more _ professional? Since no one in the office seems to want ot treat Marcel with an ounce of professionalism, maybe that’s what would help?

Louis thinks on this as he throws on a ratty old t-shirt and joggers before throwing open the door. Clifford immediately barrels into him, knocking his back against the sink with a  _ thud. _

“We need to work on that,” Louis says, steadying the large dog leaning heavily against him with happy pants. “If you break this sink the landlady isn’t going to be happy.”

— 

“They didn’t have English Breakfast,” Louis says, after knocking  _ one-two-three _ and pushing open the door of Marcel’s office. “So I got you Earl Grey, I hope you don’t mind.”

He places the cup down on Marcel’s desk as usual. Today, Marcel is wearing a blue sweater vest with sheep dancing across it, and a white collared undershirt. The blue really brings out the green in his eyes, Louis thinks.

_ Wait, _ he reminds himself.  _ Marcel is my boss. That means none of those thoughts either. _

(He’s had a few of those thoughts. Marcel does have a nice length of chestnut coloured hair, when he deigns to let it loose from the large amount of pomade he clearly applies). 

Marcel looks at the drink with a sigh. He seems tired, today. 

“You should probably just give it to someone else,” he says. “I have a meeting to lead in a few minutes anyway.”

For a moment Louis is incredibly caught off guard that Marcel is actually  _ talking to him. _ Then, his brain catches up. “A meeting?” He asks. “Who with?”

“The other department heads,” Marcel says, giving him a suspicious look. “It’s just the usual monthly meeting.”

“So, Ben and Cheryl?”

“And James. Look,” Marcel glares at the tea now as if it’s done something to affront him. He avoids looking at Louis. “If you’re trying to make friends in this job, I’m not the one to be doing it with. It won’t help you out there, that’s for sure.”

He stands up and gathers a few of the stacks of papers onto his desk. “I’m sure you can see yourself out,” he says, moving around his desk and out the door and leaving Louis in his wake.

_ No shit, _ Louis thinks to himself. 

But for some reason, that’s not a deterrent to him. 

— 

“You do this, you know,” Niall says.

Louis leans back in his chair, leveling Niall with a look. “What, care too much?”

“I mean, yeah.” Niall pops a chip into his mouth. “But specifically, you find people that you think have problems, and you try to solve them all.”

Louis takes a slow pull from his pint. “I mean,” he draws the words out. “Is that a bad thing?”

“It is if they don’t want them to be solved,” Niall says. “Take my kids, for instance.”

“You talk like you’re the mother of thirty.”

“Thirty  _ angels,  _ yes. My students are my children, we all know that. But sometimes I have a kid who has a problem, like he’s been trying to tie his shoes for about fifteen minutes and I just want to be able to let them go to lunch, but he’s been trying so hard on tying his laces that if I just step in and do it for him, he’ll be upset about it.”

“You’re saying that Marcel wants to solve his apparent ostracisation on his own?” Louis looks at him sceptically. 

Shrugging, Niall steals a chip off of Louis’ plate (even though his own are  _ right there). _ “I just want you to be sure you’ve looked at it from all angles. I don’t know the guy. But maybe he just isn’t a people person? Some people want to get their job done and go home.”

Louis thinks about all the stories he’s told, about the scones and the biscuits and the new tea kettle. Jeff had even made a comment that his first Christmas working here, everyone had gotten handmade Christmas cards. “If that’s true,” he says. “I think something big must have changed in the last few years, and I want to know what it is.”

“Okay, alternate idea,” Niall says. “Have you tried… asking him?”

“Absolutely not. Worst idea ever. I asked him last week if he wanted me to bring a scone with his tea next time and he gave me a look like I had murdered his grandchildren.”

“Maybe he just has resting bitch face?”

“Maybe I’m walking a very narrow tightrope and don’t want him to push me off.”

“Strange metaphor, but I dig it.” Niall flips up his phone and unlocks it. “Actually, you know what we should do? Cyber stalk him.”

“I already tried, he doesn’t have a facebook.”

Snorting, Niall picks up his phone in both hands and starts typing furiously. “If that’s the extent of your cyber stalking no wonder you always pick such bad dates.”

_ “Hey!” _

“Hold on, I’m hacking into the mainframe.”

Louis rolls his eyes. “You’re, what, trying to find his old Bebo?”

“Bebo got shut down ages ago. Aha!” He turns the screen toward Louis. “Instagram.”

“Holy shit,” Louis says, taking the phone. “There wasn’t one under his name, how did you even find that?”

“A magician never reveals his secrets,” Niall says, going back to his drink.

Louis ignores that terrible comment, too caught up in the content before him. Marcel’s Instagram icon is of himself, but with a bright smile on his face that Louis couldn’t imagine ever seeing in real life. It’s a crooked, angled,  _ joyful _ sort of smile. He’s still got a sweater vest on, this one yellow with blue dots that Louis doesn’t think he’s seen before, and while the small icon offers little room for detail, the angle suggests it was taken by someone else. 

Scrolling down the feed, it seems to be almost entirely… birds. Pigeons, to be exact. A combination of black and white and vibrant colour, birds that are clearly wild. 

The multitude of pigeons are interspersed with a few other kinds of photos as well, Marcel and two friends in fancy dress at what is probably a Halloween party, Marcel and the same two friends at what looks like a runway event. The two friends, sans-Marcel, holding hands and grinning like idiots as one holds up a box with a ring inside. 

“Wow,” he says. “He’s got some loved-up friends.”

“And a whole lot of pigeons,” Niall says, looking over the top of the phone. 

“That too.” Louis hands it back to him. “I had noticed the pigeon thing already, actually.”

“Well why didn’t you  _ say so?” _ Niall asks, looking scandalized. “Now  _ that’s  _ something you can connect on! Talk about birds with him! Like our old History teacher, Mr. T.! We could always get out of pop quizzes if we talked about his bird watching for long enough.”

“Hmm,” Louis muses. “I mean, you’re not wrong. And I was  _ very _ good at sounding like I knew what a blue oriole was.”

— 

Louis’ actually not terribly sure about bringing up Marcel’s love of pigeons, as he didn’t seem too keen the first time around. He’s willing to give it a try, though, so the Monday after his usual Thursday Niall pub night, when he brings in an English Breakfast and plops it on Marcel’s desk, he pauses for a minute.

Possibly longer than a minute. Long enough that Marcel stops pretending like he hasn’t noticed Louis, which has been his go-to lately.

“Yes?” he asks, glancing above the rims of his glasses. 

“I took this picture the other day,” Louis says, digging out his phone. “I thought you might be interested in seeing it.”

Marcel frowns, looking concerned, as Louis flips to his photos app. He actually took the photo several months ago, the last time he was in London, in Paddington Station, but Marcel doesn’t need to know that. 

He turns his phone around and shows it to Marcel, a picture of a terribly large, round grey pigeon next to a skinny, dirty looking black pigeon. The black pigeon is balancing on his only leg. They seem to be sharing a tray of leftover chips.

“Oh,” says Marcel, gazing at the picture with what looks like… wonder? “That’s, um, a very good picture.” He pauses, seems to be evaluating his options, like he’s afraid to reveal too much. “Would you be willing… to email that to me?”

Louis smiles, pursing his lips together. “Of course,” he says. “I’d love to.”

— 

Louis has to find more pictures of pigeons. 

— 

Manchester has  _ lots _ of pigeons, it turns out. Having lived here his whole life, he’s never paid particular attention. 

— 

Pigeons are not, by any means, a wide open door to Marcel’s heart. But they  _ are _ a crack in the window. A crack large enough that Louis can jimmy it open a little further with each tea dropped off, each new pigeon picture. A smile just a little bit more genuine on Marcel’s face each time. 

One day, while Louis is showing Marcel a picture he took of a pigeon who had made a nest on anti-pigeon spikes on a church nearby, says, “Did you know wild pigeons can live for up to thirty years?”

“Shit,” says Louis (is he allowed to say shit at work? The door is closed, he’s probably fine), “I didn’t. That means there’s a pigeon older than I am out there.”

Marcel looks up at him and  _ smiles.  _ Just a little! “There’s a  _ lot _ of pigeons out there older than you,” he says. “And they’re smart. They can recognize and remember human faces.”

Louis thinks of the pigeons that he used to throw peanuts at as a young child. “Hopefully they wouldn’t be able to recognize me from what I looked like fifteen years ago,” he says.

Marcel hums, going back to his work. “You never know.” He says. Then, “Could you send me that one too?”

— 

“Invite him to pub night,” Niall says.

_ “What?” _ Louis asks, looking at Niall aghast. “To  _ our _ Thursday night pub nights? Our special weekly gathering that has shaped our friendship since we were old enough to pretend we were old enough to drink?”

Niall shrugs. “I mean, I’m not saying invite him to  _ all  _ our pub nights.” He swipes his fingers through the condensation left on the table. “But a few here and there? Sure. The guy clearly needs to unwind.”

“He likes pigeons,” Louis says, a little dreamily. Marcel  _ really _ likes pigeons. His eyes just light up. It’s so nice.

Niall flicks the water at him. “I know, you numpty. I was the one who showed you his Instagram last week.”

“Oh yeah.”

— 

Louis keeps showing Marcel pictures of pigeons, and keeps delivering him tea, but he doesn’t mention pub night, not right away. 

He also keeps getting invited to the pub nights that the rest of the office attend. Somehow, he’s found that he doesn’t have a great time at them. Perrie is nice enough, and Nick and Jeff are good for a laugh (Ben isn’t good for much of anything, and the one night Cheryl showed up it was  _ very  _ awkward), but he spends the whole time a little tense, just sort of waiting for someone to bring up Marcel. He’s a common topic of bashing in conversation, an easy way to get everyone on the same topic of conversation. 

“You’ve spent a lot of time in his office lately,” Nick points out one Friday night as they all sit around two pushed together tables. 

“Well,” Louis hedges. “He  _ is _ my boss.”

“Is he?” Camille asks. “I didn’t think he was anybody’s boss.”

“Certainly doesn’t seem very boss-like,” Nick agrees.

Louis shrugs. “He’s not that bad,” he says, and instantly feels like he’s not doing enough. Like he should have said more in defence. “Hasn’t yelled at me for dropping some commas or messing up line spacing or anything.”

“Perrie’s told me off for that,” Jeff mutters into his drink. 

“And you  _ deserved  _ it,” Perrie says, slapping him on the shoulder so he spills beer down his front. “Honestly, you went to university for this stuff. Keep up.”

“I went to university to learn how to sew,” Jade says. “I’m just biding my time until I can get a gig at somewhere nice. Burberry preferably.”

“I went to university to find myself a man and become a househusband,” Nick says. “Which, can I just say, did  _ not _ work out for me.”

Louis laughs because everybody laughs, but he thinks about Marcel while he does. What did Marcel do to land himself here, at Mod Mag? Why did  _ he _ go to university?

— 

The opportunity presents itself nearly a week later, on the Friday before VE Day. Louis’ sisters have been texting him all morning, reminding him that he had  _ promised _ to picnic with them over the weekend and if he tries to blow them off they  _ will _ come to his flat and take Clifford. 

It’s a real threat that they have made good on before. 

He doesn’t have time to get drinks that morning, because the lines everywhere are extra-long, people probably getting a little excited and celebrating the long weekend early. So, instead, he ends up popping his head into Marcel’s office around noon to ask if he wants anything from the canteen on the ground floor. The food isn’t amazing, by any means, but he figures it’s the thought that counts. 

Marcel doesn’t even look up from his work. More often now he’s been willing to actually engage Louis in light conversation (mostly about pigeons). But today he looks like he’s about ready to force Louis out that door and lock it behind him.

“Nothing, thanks,” he says, before growling something under his breath and shoving a stack of papers that Louis recognizes as the layout for the next month. 

“Everything okay?” Louis asks, taking a step inside the door and letting it close behind him.

“Of course,” Marcel says immediately. “Just fine. Now if you could leave me alone, I’d truly appreciate it.”

“Oh… kay,” Louis puts his hand back on the door handle. “If you need me to switch tasks to help with something, I can. Nothing I’m working on right now has immediate deadlines.”

Marcel flicks his fingers at Louis in a way that reads  _ shoo  _ and doesn’t respond to the offer. Louis slips outside again and makes a face. 

Okay, that’s Marcel in a stressed mood. Got it.

He doesn’t try to check in with Marcel again until the very end of the day, five fifteen, after the office has emptied out. He’s not even sure why he’s trying now— Marcel always stays late, this is nothing unusual.

But still, he knocks  _ one-two-three _ before letting himself in, opening the door to the sound of fast paced classical that he  _ thinks _ is Vivaldi.

Marcel turns it down immediately. “Yes?” he asks. He looks exhausted. 

“Can I help with anything  _ now?” _ asks Louis. He feels bolder, somehow, now that work hours are over. Like he’s allowed to be more demanding. 

Marcel lets out a frustrated sigh and puts a hand to his temple. “The workday is over,” he says. “It’s a three day weekend, you should go home to your family.”

“My family will see me tomorrow,” Louis says. “Shouldn’t  _ you _ be going home to  _ your _ family?”

He knows nothing about Marcel’s family. Oh god, what if he doesn’t have one?

“I—” Marcel starts and then deflates. “I was supposed to go home to London tonight, and see my mum and sister this weekend. But we’ve changed up the layout at the last minute and I need everything reset before it gets sent to the printers on Monday. I’m going to be here all night and miss the last train out”

“Alright,” Louis says. “Give me something to work on. I’ll help you.”

Marcel frowns at him, like he doesn’t believe him, like Louis is going to laugh any minute and walk out that door again. “Uh,” he says. “Well, all these photos need switched out to go with the new metadata. If I dropbox them to you…?”

“On it,” Louis says. “Be right back.”

He head back to his office and grabs the work-issued laptop he keeps in his desk (the one that only recognizes his face about fifty percent of the time) and heads back to Marcel’s office, dragging in a chair from someone’s desk outside and sitting it on the other side of his big wooden desk. 

“Show me what needs to be done,” he says.

— 

They work for almost three hours, and Louis learns that he’s half decent at eyeing margins and catching incorrect font sizes. 

When Marcel finally powers down his computer after sending the copy on to Ben, Louis whoops in excitement. 

“We did it!” he says, holding his hand out for a high five that Marcel tentatively meets. “That was great. It’s like in  _ Gilmore Girls _ where they get the paper out on time when no one thought they were going to be able to.”

“Yeah…” Marcel says, looking like he has no idea what Louis is saying. “Like that.”

“Do you have enough time to make it home?” Louis asks.

“If I hurry.” Marcel starts shoving things into his bag. “I, um. Thank you. So much.”

Louis smiles. “Any time,” he says. And then, because tonight has gone some kind of way, he decides to throw it out there. “My friend Niall and I have a pub night every Thursday. Very chill, just bad beer and greasy chips. If you’re ever free on a Thursday…”

Marcel gives him a funny sort of look. “Probably not,” he says. “But… thank you.”

Louis watches him hurry out before shoving the chair he’d been sitting on back to its original desk and returning his laptop. Well, it’s an open invitation. It’s out there.


	4. Part 3 - Gradient Winds

Gradient Winds

[ **grey** -dee- _uh_ nt wind ] - _noun_

Wind created by differing barometric pressures between high and low air-pressure systems.

* * *

The fact of the matter is, Louis’ office is not as nice as Marcel’s office. 

Plus, Louis does most of his work on his laptop (or that’s what he’ll tell Marcel if he asks), which means that it’s very easy to simply pick up his laptop and move right down the hall to Marcel’s office. 

He’s got a lot more windows, and Louis loves a view. 

Now,  _ should _ Louis pick up his laptop and move to Marcel’s office? That’s another question entirely. Louis spends a long morning debating this very question, in fact. He wonders about whether he would be pressing his luck, whether Marcel would snap and finally yell at him, tell him to go back to his own office. Maybe a plan like this would backfire and send him back to square one.

On the other hand, Louis has always been good at worming his way in where he doesn’t belong. It’s a specialty of his. And it’s not like Marcel’s rejected him yet. 

(Or at least, not in a way he hasn’t been able to overcome).

The first time he does it, he tries to act like it’s nothing out of the ordinary. Just walks into Marcel’s office and sits down on the carpet, his back up against Marcel’s large, worn wooden desk, and opens his laptop to get back to the article he was working on. 

Out of the corner of his eye he can see Marcel’s face, etched with confusion. 

“Is there something wrong with your office?” Marcel eventually asks. 

“No,” Louis says. 

A moment of silence, and then, “Why are you on my floor?”

Louis puts a finger to his lips and makes a shushing noise, before brushing his fringe out of his eyes and leaning over his laptop as if he has something very serious he’s working on. “I’m trying to get work done,” he says. 

He very purposefully doesn’t look at Marcel, just tries to act like this is a perfectly normal thing that he has done, and after a few more charged minutes he hears the creak of Marcel’s chair and the tapping of his fingers at his keyboard. 

And Louis absolutely considers it a win. 

— 

He tries not to do it  _ every _ day. But, a few times a week? No one really checks on Louis in his office. Probably, no one’s going to notice.

— 

It’s clearly been a hard day for Marcel. 

Louis isn’t sure exactly in what way, just that there was a meeting this morning that he wasn’t a part of (thank god) and when Marcel passed by the break room on the way back to his office, Louis could clearly see 

“You know what?” Marcel says out of the blue, raising his head from where it had been practically glued to his monitor to turn and look at Louis, eyes comically large behind his glasses. “Fine. I’ll go to the pub with you and your friend.”

Louis blinks. “Really?” he asks, a smile breaking out on his face. He ignores the fact that Marcel  _ definitely  _ knows Niall’s name by now. “That’s great! I’ll send you the address.”

Marcel stares at him just long enough for Louis to start to feel uncomfortable, and then nods once and turns back to his screen. “You do that,” he says. Then, quieter, “Need something on a day like today anyway.”

Louis catches that but doesn’t respond. Everybody has that feeling from time to time, and he’s not about to lose his newfound friendship level with Marcel by trying to pry too early. He grabs his phone off of the carpet next to him and takes a moment to shoot the address to Marcel, and message Niall to tell him that they’re going to have company.

— 

When Louis arrives, Niall’s already got a corner booth claimed, pint in hand as he scrolls on his phone. It’s dark outside and the atmosphere is warm and companionable, chatter from all the tables mixing together. Louis stops at the booth long enough to dump his heavy coat before heading up to grab a pint of his own and a basket of chips (that Niall will probably hog). 

It takes a while, typical for a Thursday night, and by the time Louis’ turning around with beer in hand he catches sight of Marcel, standing awkward and pigeon-toed just inside the door. 

“Marcel!” Louis shouts, raising his glass to catch his attention. Marcel’s face snaps to him and he seems to let out a breath, swerving through the tables to follow Louis’ lead to the booth. 

Louis sets down the basket of chips in the middle of the table and Niall immediately reaches for it. Louis swats his hand away. “At least wait for me to tell you that you can have them,” he chides. “Careful, or I’ll drown them in ketchup and your fragile little digestive system won’t be able to handle them.”

“You’re cruel and I do not enjoy your jokes at my body’s fragile ecosystem,” Niall pouts.

“You’d buy your own chips if you truly cared,” Louis says. He turns his body to include Marcel in the conversation, who’s standing just far enough away that Louis feels he needs to offer another invitation, like a vampire who hasn’t been given permission to enter a home. “Marcel!” he says, waving him the last few feet into their space. “This is Niall, he’s Irish. Niall, this is Marcel. Marcel’s a  _ Londoner.” _

“I’ve lived here for years,” mutters Marcel. Louis often forgets how tall Marcel is— at work he’s usually sitting at his desk, broad shoulders hunched over his screen. Even now, standing next to Louis and looking almost intimidatingly tall, he’s slouched forward, as if to apologise for the amount of space he takes up. 

“Nice to meet you,” Niall says, holding out a hand that’s already got chip grease on it. Marcel takes it anyway, with a cordial,  _ likewise. _

“Do you want me to order you something?” Louis asks, motioning to his own drink. “Since I  _ am  _ the one who’s practically forced you at gunpoint to have a social life.”

“Oh, no of course not,” Marcel argues, stepping back. “I’ll, uh, be right back.”

He wanders off through the room, his path between tables teetering between graceful shuffling and awkward bumbling. Louis watches him until he’s all the way up at the bar before sliding into the booth, down to the far end where his coat is. 

Niall raises an eyebrow at him. “The famous Marcel,” he says. 

“That’s him,” Louis agrees. “He needs friends, Niall. Be extra nice to him, okay?”

“You’ve told me only about thirty times,” Niall says. “Twenty of those have been since you texted to say that he was coming.”

“Well I  _ am _ the one who invited him,” Louis defends. “If I invited you to lunch with my coworkers and then they all spit in your drink it wouldn’t really make you want to come back, would it?”

Niall snorts. “I can’t tell if this is a low view of me, or a low view of your coworkers. Louis, have  _ you _ ever spit in someone’s drink?”

Louis purses his lips. “Once,” he says, taking a swig of his own. “He deserved it.”

Niall narrows his eyes. “Was it  _ my _ drink?”

Louis says nothing.

(It wasn’t Niall’s drink, but Niall doesn’t need to know that it was one of his exes).

_ “Louis!” _ Niall shouts, grabbing a chip and chucking it across the table at him. “You owe me a drink!”

“I didn’t admit to anything!” Louis shouts back. He grabs a chip and fakes throwing it at Niall before popping it in his mouth.

“Christ, I’ve probably swallowed  _ Tommo spit,” _ Niall moans.

“You  _ haven’t,” _ Louis says, exasperated. 

“Um,” says Marcel. 

“Marcel!” Louis pats the spot next to him. “Sit! Niall was just about to tell me all about his week at work.”

“Oh  _ was _ I?” Niall asks as Marcel gingerly takes a seat next to Louis. He sits with his knees together and one hand clutched around his pint for dear life. He looks like he’s ready to be told that he’s in someone else’s spot and needs to leave.

“Niall works in a special education classroom,” Louis explains, filling Marcel in. “His co-teacher is a dick.”

Marcel nods, his brows knitted together as if he takes this information  _ very  _ seriously indeed. He probably does. He takes  _ all _ information very seriously. 

“She’s not a  _ dick,” _ Niall argues. “She’s just lazy. And always on her phone. And never does her job. Or any job.”

“Niall’s trying to get her fired,” Louis supplies.

_ “Reassigned,” _ Niall corrects. He turns to Marcel. “Not to brag, but I’m a good teacher. And they know it, which is why they keep sticking her with me. Figure she can’t screw up as badly if she’s with someone responsible.”

“But it hasn’t been working?” Marcel asks.

Niall snorts. He grabs another chip. “I’ve halved her responsibilities,” he says. “Her  _ one job _ is keeping the classroom clean and not breaking any rules herself. Pardon me for thinking she might be able to be as much use as a roomba.”

He launches into a story that he’s already relayed to Louis over text— that he caught her trying to eat chocolate buttons under her desk (very much against the rules), and as soon as he did, so did most of their class of eight students, and the whole day was immediately thrown off course because of all the children suddenly begging for chocolate buttons as rewards for their good behavior (which quickly got progressively worse). Niall’s a great storyteller, and by the time he’s at the part of the story where he’s explaining that their classroom aide had appeared for their art course and found the class in near hysterics, Louis knows that there’s no way Marcel isn’t hooked.

He keeps glancing over at Marcel, whose eyes are wide and intent on Niall, transfixed and becoming more relaxed by the moment. This is what Niall’s good at, putting people at ease. Louis knows he’s good at getting under people’s skin and leaving a lasting impression, but that’s not at all the same as Niall’s ability to disarm someone, his self-depreciation and storytelling putting even the most prickly of people at ease. 

This was definitely the right decision. 

Niall’s made a seamless transition to his second story of the night (this one an old one from his early days teaching that Louis’ heard near a hundred times) about the time he accidentally left a child behind in the classroom while everyone else went on a nature walk, only to return half an hour later to find that said child had located the drawer of reward snacks and eaten his way through two large bags of starmix. 

“Oh no,” breathes Marcel when Niall describes the trails of gummies that lead back to the child’s desk. 

“It was really impressive actually,” Niall says, and this is the part where he always sounds so proud of his students. “He moved with a zimmer frame and usually we could barely get him to leave his desk, so navigating all the way up to my desk and going through my drawers was something that I was pretty proud of, not that I could show  _ him _ that.”

“Of course not,” Marcel says. “Wouldn’t want to show him you approve of such things.”

“He already was so proud of himself,” Niall agrees. “I had to keep an extra tight watch on him for a few weeks after that, he tried to pull that trick every time the class went anywhere.”

Marcel laughs, and it’s  _ loud _ , so loud Louis jumps a little. He’s  _ never _ heard Marcel laugh.

It sounds like unbridled happiness. 

Marcel, whether he’s noticed Louis’ reaction or whether he’s just learned to reign it in, covers his mouth with his hand, and then takes a long drink from his pint, which he’s been nursing since Niall started. It’s nearly empty. 

Louis makes an executive decision and then chugs the half of his drink that’s left. “Right, next round’s on me,” he says, making motions for Marcel to stand so that Louis can slip past him. 

“Oh,” Marcel says, jumping to do so. “Are you sure? I can—”

Louis waves him off. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

“Yeah, Tommo’s not generally the generous type,” Niall says. “Take advantage while you can.”

“I’m the generous type when people are nice and don’t eat all my chips while I’m in the loo,” Louis argues, raising his eyebrows at Niall. 

“That was one time,” Niall says. “And you had the runs! Anyway, we could use more of those too.”

He shakes the basket in Louis’ direction and Louis rolls his eyes.

He was already planning on ordering more anyway. 

— 

When Louis returns with three pints and a new basket (he wasn’t sure what Marcel was drinking, but he knows Niall’s favourites so he just got one of those because Niall’s got that good taste that comes with being Irish), Niall’s launched into another story about his horrible co-teacher and the time she left work early claiming a dental operation, only to start tweeting from Alton Towers two hours later. 

“To be fair,” Louis says, sliding in when Marcel stands up for him to pass by. “She could have gotten dental work done  _ first, _ and then gone a little wild.”

Niall snorts. “Sounds like the sort of thing you’d do,” he says.

“Does not,” argues Louis. “I’d be perfectly respectable and call off first.”

“But you’d still follow up a dental appointment with a theme park?” Marcel asks, looking over at him with interest.

Louis slides down both their drinks. “Why not?” He shrugs. 

“When Louis got his wisdom teeth removed he cried on the couch all day because I wouldn’t bring him banana pudding,” Niall says.

Louis shoots Niall a death glare. “Yeah, well one time when Niall and I were in university he thought it would be a good idea to fill his coffee mug with Bailey’s to get through his final.”

“You can’t shame me with that,” Niall says defiantly. “I got 105 on that test.”

“And fell asleep on a park bench right afterward and when you woke up someone had stolen your shoes.”

“But  _ not _ my bag,” Niall points out. “That’s why you always use your bag like a pillow if you’re going to sleep on a park bench.”

Marcel’s been turning his head back and forth like he’s at a tennis match. “Why banana pudding?” he asks Louis.

Louis shrugs. “It’s what my mum used to buy me when I was sick,” he says. “Guess being hopped up on painkillers and missing teeth made me nostalgic.”

“That was when you got that infection,” Niall says. “Because you didn’t brush well enough, and you got dry socket or something and you could shoot pus out of your mouth by pushing on your cheek.”

“I  _ really _ don’t think Marcel wants to hear about that,” Louis says. Even if it is one of his best stories. He made Niall start dry heaving just from seeing him do it.

“No, I’m interested,” Marcel says. He’s already started work on his second pint. “Did you use your pus-shooting powers for good?”

“He sure didn’t,” Niall says, and Louis snorts before diving into the story.

— 

It’s one of the best pub nights Louis’ had in a while.

Not that weekly nights just him and Niall  _ aren’t  _ fun, as Niall could get a corpse to laugh, but as the night goes on, Marcel loosens up more than Louis could have possibly hoped for.

Two-drink-Marcel is sitting back in his seat, spreading his legs and taking up space like he’s not afraid to exist.

Three-drink-Marcel is laughing without covering his mouth, loud and unashamed and giving  _ such _ a boost to Louis’ ego. 

Four-drink-Marcel is running a hand through his hair, letting his carefully maintained style loose into ringlets around his face. 

Five-drink-Marcel is loose lipped and bitter.

“Oh god, I was  _ such _ a child,” he says, leaning back and slinging one arm up across the back of the booth.

“We were all dumb kids when we got our first job,” Niall argues with him. Niall’s also on his fifth drink, but he’s good at keeping up a sober front. It’s probably from all those years sneaking Baileys into class. 

“Yeah, but I was—” Marcel struggles to find the word. “A fucking people-pleaser.” 

He spits the title out like it’s something gross in his mouth. Louis (three-drink-Louis, who knows if he has any more he’s just going to be spending the rest of the night heading off to piss every five minutes) feels a nagging in the back of his mind that this might be… important.

“Like, I’d come down here from London, right? Big, independent Marcel, so sure I was on my way to the top and so ready to make a good impression and be everyone’s friend.” Marcel tips back his drink. “And my first fucking day of work— it’s so ridiculous. It’s dumb.”

“It’s not,” Louis says, touching a hand to Marcel’s arm. This is something no-drink-Marcel definitely would have balked at. “What? What happened?”

“They just—” Marcel screws up his face into a scowl. “They didn’t even give me a fucking chance! I baked— things. Cookies and biscuits and shit.  _ Nothing. _ No one ever ate any of it.”

“You do work in the fashion industry,” Niall points out. “Maybe they were on diets?”

Marcel kicks his long legs out. “Nope,” he says, emphasis on the ‘p’. “Jeff brings in donuts every Friday, always has. Those are gone in an hour. I fucking— I said hello to everyone. I quizzed myself on the staff intranet page until I knew everyone’s name by heart in the first week and you know  _ what?” _

“What?” asks Louis.

“It didn’t matter.” 

Marcel sniffs. His eyes are red. 

“It didn’t matter because no one there thinks I’m worth shit.”

Louis sits in stunned silence at that.

Like, he  _ knew _ , of course, that Marcel must be aware of how he’s viewed around the office. Of course on some level that would be impossible to miss. But for Marcel to just say it like that, clear as day, that it’s something he’s known since day one…

Shit.

“Well I work there now,” Louis says, and it sounds small and meaningless compared to what Marcel’s just thrown out. “And I know fucking better, don’t I?”

“Sounds to me,” says Niall, “like we need more chips.”

He starts to stand but Marcel waves him back down. “I think I’m just… I’m going to call an Uber. Thanks for this. I’m sorry I ruined your evening.”

Louis tries to disagree as Marcel rises from the booth and takes a stack of bills out of his pocket.    
“For the chips,” he explains, even though Louis’ pretty sure he never ate any to begin with.

Louis watches him leave, feeling suddenly very cold. When he turns back to Niall, Niall is looking expectantly at him. 

“Jesus Christ,” says Niall. “You numbnut, go after him.”

“Oh,” says Louis. “You don’t think he wants to be alone?”

“Would  _ you?” _ asks Niall. “I’ll end shit here. Go comfort your nerdy coworker friend.”

“He’s  _ not _ nerdy,” Louis says, already standing. If Marcel’s ordering an Uber, he’s got a bit yet.

He rushes outside and nearly trips over Marcel, who’s sat down at the edge of the kerb, feet in the gutter.

“Shit,” says Louis, and then sits down right beside him. “Mind if I wait with you?”

“Um,” says Marcel.

“And by, mind if I wait with you, what I really mean is, I want you to know that everyone at our office are snobs and jerks and I don’t want you to think I’m one of them.”

Marcel pauses, and then says, “Maybe you should be.”

“I  _ really _ don’t think so,” Louis says. “But do you have an actual reason?”

“What if…” Marcel looks up and around them. “What if I didn’t get the job because I was any good? What if it was just handed to me?”

Louis looks at him curiously. He remembers the articles praising Marcel’s work in fashion and design. It seems unlikely. “Was it?” he asks.

“I don’t know,” Marcel says, sounding terribly honest. “Would they have told me if it was?”

“I don’t know either,” Louis says. “Why would they have done that, though?”

Marcel is silent, and at first Louis thinks he’s just thinking of a way to phrase his answer, the way he’s so careful with his words. But eventually time stretches on until Louis is sure that that’s a question he’s not getting an answer to.

“What’s your passion, Marcel?”

Marcel lets out a heavy sigh, tilting his head back and gazing at the cloudy sky above them. “What do you mean?” he asks.

“I mean, why are you at a fashion magazine? What is it about fashion that you looked at and thought, _that._ _That’s_ what I want to make a living doing? Like, you clearly have one very specific style of clothing that you like and wear, but you work at a magazine that promotes the newest trends every season.”

Marcel scrunches his face up for a moment like he’s trying to think really hard about a math problem, and then relaxes again. “Sustainability,” he says.

“What?” Louis asks, properly turning to look at him.

“Sustainability,” Marcel says again. “I— there’s  _ so much _ that should be said about sustainability in the world of fashion, how the fashion ecosystem has created this  _ terrible  _ world of fast fashion, the newest trends not lasting longer than a few weeks.” He pushes his glasses up the bridge of his nose and slumps forward. “The fashion industry as it is is  _ unsustainable, _ and I want to make a change.”

“A change toward… sustainability?”

Louis knows what he’s talking about, has seen the trends and the complaints about how there’s nothing new ever truly being created by the new runway looks, that fashion now is just repeating old seasons in slightly different ways and that everything in H&M and Topshop are virtually worthless within a week, but. 

“There’s a difference between fashion and style,” Marcel says, taking on a serious tone. Fashion is what the big fashion houses are  _ telling _ you is a good thing to wear. Style is personal. Style is something more permanent, something you  _ craft _ for yourself and can stay true to. Things can go out of fashion, and they do! All the time! But your style, if you have a  _ true style, _ is something that you can build a closet over. Less pieces, but more expensive. Better quality! Pieces sewn by hand and made to last that can be repaired and re-used for decades.” He looks over at Louis and his eyes are shining. “Imagine creating a fashion world built around the idea of fewer, but  _ better _ pieces. More money going into tailoring so things can be re-worn even when people gain or lose weight. The pieces in your closet are there to represent your  _ personality, _ your true inner person. Not something you buy and wear because you want to look like everyone else.”

Louis nods, slowly, digesting that. “Is that why all the sweater vests? And pressed trousers?”

Marcel smiles, but it’s a little bitter; doesn’t meet his eyes. “Yeah,” he says. “I love this look. It’s who I am. It’s not something that was ever in fashion, and probably never  _ will _ be in fashion, and that’s the point. My love for it is what makes it timeless.”

“So, why Mod Mag?”

“I thought it would be a good starting place,” he says. “But.” A pause. “I was wrong. I don’t know what I’m doing there. I can’t make a difference. To make a difference, someone would have to respect my ideas. But they don’t.”

“So why are you  _ still _ there?”

“I mean, what would you do?” Eyes downcast, he picks at the gravel at their feet. “Apply for another magazine and hope that you get a good review when they call, even though you know no one in your office likes you? Or even knows why you care? Or put your head down and hope that eventually, miraculously, something changes? That you get offered your big break, and with the little bit of power you’re provided you can make a difference?” He turns to Louis. “Because I honestly don’t know the answer. I’m just trying to survive to the next week at this point.”

Louis nods, feeling the weight of the world on Marcel’s shoulders. “I don’t know,” he says. “But I know that you’re better than what’s been offered to you. You deserve more.”

Marcel laughs, hollow. “Sure,” he says. “No one thought I deserved the position when I got it, and I haven’t been able to prove myself in the four years I’ve been here, but sure. It could just be that this is what I get for taking shortcuts.”


	5. Part 4 - Candling

Candling

[ **kand-** ling ] - _noun_

Burning aerial canopy of one single tree from ground up.

* * *

Marcel’s office door is locked. 

Marcel’s office door is  _ never _ locked.

Louis didn’t even know Marcel’s office door  _ could  _ lock.

Okay, that one is a lie. Marcel definitely locks his office when he’s not in it. But he’s definitely in his office today, Louis can clearly see the lights on and his vague outline hunched at his desk through the frosted glass. 

Which is— well, it’s just  _ not fair. _ Marcel  _ knows  _ that Louis can’t just sit in front of his door like a creep until Marcel gives in and opens it. He actually still considers it, for a moment, before the reality that he’s at work and has things that he does, technically, need to get done sets in. 

With a sigh, he returns to his own office. It feels especially small, now that he doesn’t have the option of sneaking over to Marcel’s larger one and spreading out with his back against the window as he wants to. His own office has  _ normal _ sized windows. How terrible. 

> _ To: MStyles@modmag.co.uk _
> 
> _ Subject: Open Your Door Please _
> 
> _ Marcel, _
> 
> _ My office is just too small :( I miss your big window, please let me in.  _

He sends the email without letting himself second-guess it. The fact of the matter is, Louis’ pretty sure he knows why Marcel’s door is locked. It doesn’t take a genius that a night out getting drunk and spilling his guts can have a bit of a negative effect. He’s  _ hoping _ that sending an email that totally overlooks everything that happened on Thursday will be an invitation for Marcel to  _ also _ pretend it never happened.

At least, long enough for him to open his door. Louis can promise nothing after he’s gained entry. 

He sits and works through all the emails that accumulated over the weekend, but by the time he’s through them Marcel still hasn’t responded. 

(Not a good sign). 

Opening the assignment he had been working on before leaving on Friday, Louis half-heartedly skims through it. 

He goes to the break room to make tea. 

Leaning against the counter as he waits for the kettle (the porcelain blue one, Marcel’s kettle), he scrolls through his phone. Probably, since Marcel hasn’t responded to his very adult sounding work email, he wouldn’t respond any faster to a text. That might actually scare him off more. It would be a bad decision. 

Still, Louis has to work hard not to send him one. Something saying,  _ hey it’s okay that you told me that stuff, I already sort of knew it _ or  _ Niall thought you were cool  _ or even  _ please come to every Thursday pub night that Niall and I have, this is a standing invitation _ , because why not get  _ really _ wet and wild and lay all his cards on the table. 

The kettle clicks off just as James walks into the break room, pulling open the refrigerator in search of something. 

_ They didn’t even give me a fucking chance, _ echoes Marcel’s voice in Louis’ mind as Kid pulls out an aloe drink and uncaps it.  _ No one there thinks I’m worth shit. _

James makes eye contact and up-nods Louis before chugging the drink. Louis looks away, pours the water into his mug and watches the tea bag rise to the surface. 

How could they?

He  _ has _ to be missing something.

Louis just  _ needs _ to figure out what it was.

At this point, he doesn’t care how weird he looks. His opinion of his office-mates has just been going downhill the longer he spends with Marcel, and maybe he just doesn’t give a fuck now about people’s opinions of him.

When the kettle clicks he pours the water for his tea and then takes his mug and makes his way over to Nick’s desk, where he’s working on what looks like a game of Solitaire on his computer.

“Nick,” Louis says, making him jump. “Fancy getting lunch?”

“It’s ten,” Nick says, shooting him a confused glance. 

“I’m peckish,” says Louis.

Nick cocks his head at Louis and then shrugs. “Yeah, sure,” he says. “Canteen?”

“Closest and cheapest,” Louis agrees.

“Certainly not most delicious.”

“You can’t have cheapest  _ and _ most delicious,” Louis says. “I’ll meet you down there, I just have to grab my wallet.”

— 

The canteen serves all the businesses in the building, which Louis is pretty sure is at least four, but at ten it’s not exactly over-crowded.

“So, my dear Lewis,” Nick says, taking a seat with a plate of fruit and a croissant in front of him. “Why have you called this meeting today?”

“To talk about Marcel,” Louis says. He might as well cut straight to the point. “Considering how recently I was hired, I think that I’m missing some backstory that the rest of you have already gotten.”

Nick purses his lips. “I feel like we’ve all made it pretty clear,” he says. “It’s not like we’ve exactly skimped on complaining. As is our right working at a magazine, might I add. Gossip is our forte.”

“It sure is,” Louis agrees. It’s not like the whole office doesn’t gather around the newest posts from Diet Prada every day calling out different fashion brands. “But I’m missing something. Like okay, Marcel can be a little different. He bought a new kettle. He brought in sweets. He was extra polite to everyone. That’s the way someone desperate to make friends acts. I think we can all recognize those signs. But  _ no one _ likes him. Help me connect the dots.

Maybe Louis chose Nick because he can tell that Nick has a bit of a soft spot for him. Maybe he chose Nick because he could tell Nick would be the easiest to crack. Maybe he chose Nick because whoever decides it’s their passion in life to become a BBC radio DJ has a penchant for getting all the facts and hoarding them like a miser.

“Okay,” says Nick, leaning forward and lowering his voice like there are spies around every corner. “You want to hear the real reason?”

“Hit me,” Louis says. 

“Simon Cowell.”

Louis frowns. “Who?”

“Simon,” Nick continues. “Was the former layout editor. Everybody loved him. He was, like, this older guy who was super good at his job and if he liked you, you knew you were going places, you know?”

“Right,” says Louis, drawing out the word.

“He also had a lot of connections to our London branch, right? Like, he knew everyone there. If we wanted a big change, we’d go to him because we knew he’d talk to the big guys upstairs. Simon knew  _ everybody. _ So one day, he says he’s going to be down at the London branch for a week to try to swing us a chance at interviewing this big new fashion house that’s coming out of Japan, right? Like, we’re all thinking oh my god, this is it, we’re going to have this breaking story  _ and _ get to fly to  _ Japan. _ So he leaves to go to London, and then  _ nothing.” _

“Nothing?” Louis asks. 

_ “Nothing.” _

“Okay, so…”

_ “So,  _ a week later we’re informed by email that he’s  _ apparently _ quit, and that we’re getting this brand new nobody to take his place. No one from our branch even got offered the chance to apply!” Nick sits back. “It’s just fucking suspicious if you ask me. Simon was like, our advocate. A voice for our branch magazine. Then Marcel comes down here, wet behind the ears, almost no real experience, and we’re all just supposed to be okay with that?” He slaps his hand against the table. “Hell no, Louis.”

Louis digests this information. “So… Why  _ was _ he hired?”

“No idea.” Nick makes a face. “He’s never said. Nobody else has ever said. I don’t think we’ll ever get a straight answer.”

“Huh,” says Louis. He sips his tea. “Well, thank you, Nick. It’s been a pleasure to learn from you.”

“No problem,” Nick says. “Obviously you came to me because you could tell I was the heart and soul of our workplace and for that I respect you.”

If that’s the way Nick wants to describe being the office gossip, Louis’ not going to disagree.

— 

It’s a stroke of  _ luck _ when Louis arrives back up on his floor.

_ Luck _ because he can see Marcel  _ just _ sliding back into his office.

Louis makes a beeline through the open plan desks to get there before the door clicks shut, and he doesn’t quite make it but when he tries the handle it swings so he pushes it  _ hard. _

Knocking the door inward and straight into Marcel, smacking him in the face, throwing him off balance and into the wall. 

_ “Shit, sorry!” _ Louis apologises, pushing the door closed behind him. “I didn’t want to get locked out again.”

Marcel rubs at his nose, eyeing Louis warily. “You have your own office,” he says.

“Yes but I have a  _ friend _ in  _ this  _ office, and I was very worried that he was trying to  _ avoid me,” _ Louis says, gesturing dramatically around him as if this would help Marcel connect the dots that  _ he _ is said friend.

“I didn’t—” Marcel sighs. “I said some very embarrassing things last night and I don’t think either of us want to relive that.”

“Embarrassing like when you voiced a true and honest fact about your life?” Louis asks. “Because from what I can tell, all you did was talk honestly about what a shit place to work this is.” 

Marcel makes a shushing motion with his hands, looking worried. But he regularly blasts classical music in here, Louis isn’t exactly concerned about being overheard.

“The people here are  _ dicks, _ Marcel, and they’re dicks to  _ you, _ and you have a right to say that.” He walks over and leans against the desk, gesturing to Marcel to sit down. “I think we’re past the part of our friendship where you try to ice me out after saying things you think are inappropriate, yeah?”

Marcel does as Louis is instructing and sits in his chair, looking sheepish. “I know you’re friends with them,” he mumbles. “I don’t want to ruin something.”

“I’m co-workers and occasionally drinking buddies with them, if that.” Louis says. “I’ll drop the lot for a better, real friend in a second.”

Marcel blinks up at him, owlishly. “Maybe they’re in the right,” he says. 

“Maybe they’re all gossiping little chickens,” Louis says. He turns and paces in front of Marcel’s desk. “Okay, so that we all have the same set of facts here, I have to ask. Do you know a Simon Cowell?”

He turns to look at Marcel just in time to see him blanch. “Uhm,” he stutters. 

“Marcel?” Louis asks, feeling a tad more uncertain.

“Yeah,” Marcel says, quiet. “I do.”

“Okay,” says Louis, worried about this new turn. “Do you know why you were offered his position?”

Marcel nods, shakily. His hands twist in his lap. “I do.”

Louis waits, and unlike last night when Marcel’s silence stretched, this time he does eventually speak again. 

“He was fired for being… inappropriate,” he all but whispers. “But they didn’t have anyone to take his place on, um, such short notice. And there I was.” He swallows. “Right place, right time. Or, wrong place, right time.”

“Marcel,” Louis says. “That’s not… You got promoted because they needed someone to fill the spot?”

Marcel nods.

“What the  _ fuck,” _ Louis breathes. “And you think that gives people here the right to treat you like this?”

“I mean,” Marcel says. “No… But it does give an explanation.”

“Not a  _ good one,” _ Louis seethes. “Especially if this Simon was being inappropriate in any way. We work with  _ models, _ that sort of thing could  _ ruin _ a magazine, not to mention the fac that it’s downright terrible.”

Marcel looks up at him, finally, eyes shining. “Yeah,” he says. “It is.”

— 

**Louis:** _ Mayday mayday _

**Niall:** _ It’s June _

**Louis:** _ stfu _ _  
_ **Louis:** _ Help me _

**Niall:** _ What _ _  
_ **Niall:** _ I only have ten more minutes of lunch type fast _

**Louis:** _ I have CAUGHT FEELINGS _

**Niall:** _ You dummy _ _  
_ **Niall:** _ You only just now noticed? _

**Louis:** _ wtf _ _  
_ **Louis:** _ You’re terrible _ _  
_ **Louis:** _ You KNEW i caught feelings and you didn’t TELL ME _

**Niall:** _ I SAID HE WAS INVITED TO PUB NIGHTS _ _  
_ **Niall:** _ when have i ever let someone in to pub nights _ _  
_ **Niall:** _ Why am i friends with the most dense person on the planet _

**Louis:** _ I thought we were BEING NICE _ _  
_ **Louis:** _ Holy shit niall what do i do _ _  
_ **Louis:** _ Hes my BOSS _

**Niall:** _ Is he actually tho _

**Louis:** _ YES???? _

**Niall:** _ Then you don’t do anything _ _  
_ **Niall:** _ Or _ _  
_ **Niall:** _ You get a new job _ _  
_ **Niall:** _ ACTUALLY better option HE gets a new job  _

**Louis:** _ If only _

**Niall:** _ Right lunch is over _ __  
**Niall:** _ Go try to not be weird around him _ _  
_ **Niall:** __ I know how you get


	6. Part 5 - Conflagration

Conflagration

[ kon-fl _uh_ - **grey** -sh _uh_ n ] - _noun_

A raging, destructive fire. Often used to describe a fire burning under extreme fire weather. The term is also used when a wildland fire burns into a wildland/urban interface, destroying many structures.

* * *

It’s dark outside.

Marcel sits with his back to the city, the fluorescent lights above him illuminating his work. He has to get this layout done before he lets himself go home— it’s Sunday, and there’s a meeting first thing in the morning and he’s going to have to be ready to go up there and present his proposition for taking the issue in a “new and innovative direction”. The same direction he’s been trying to take the magazine in since he was brought on, not that anyone cares. He had known from the beginning that it would be an uphill battle, but there was no way he could’ve been prepared for the all-out war that everyone waged against the very idea of his presence here.

But, it would be worth it. It would be worth it to make a difference, however so small, in a corner of the fashion industry. Change doesn’t happen overnight, and the seeds of sustainable fashion need to be sewn sooner rather than later. 

With a sigh he sets aside the pageview layout he’s created and switches to the articles list. Behind him, the sun has long ago set. It’s as dark as it gets in a city like Manchester, the skyline lit up from street lamps and cars and other offices with people just like him working late into the night. Marcel isn’t actually sure what time it is; he’s been avoiding looking at his watch or his phone because he knows it’ll distract him. He just has to get to the end of these two tasks and he’ll be free. Free to leave the building and experience the cool night air on his skin and, if he’s lucky, answer a barrage of texts from Louis about mundane things that seem to have caught his interest. 

The best nights are the nights when he looks at his phone and sees a high volume of Louis texts. It puts a warm feeling in his chest and settles his heart. Reminds him that, yes, someone here likes him. Someone here has finally accepted his friendship (or, forced his way in when Marcel was tired of trying). 

But not yet. He can't allow himself to look yet, because he has to put this layout together before he’s allowed to look at his phone. It’ll be a reward. He just has to get his work done. The air in here is stuffy, though, and he’s had a headache building for the last few hours. He’s not usually a headache person, not like his sister and mum who complain about them on a weekly basis. Rubbing a thumb at the tightness behind his ear to try to relieve some pain, Marcel doubles down, reading the same article for the third time in an attempt to absorb it. 

Christ, maybe he should just go home. The words on his screen don’t seem to be making it through to comprehension. Maybe he should take his laptop home? He doesn’t work well in his own house, likes to keep the spaces separate so that his flat can be for relaxation and happy thoughts. But he’s had this headache for hours now, and it’s reached a level where it feels like the world is starting to tilt a little from time to time. Is this what a migraine feels like? Gemma won’t even get out of bed on days when she had migraines when they lived together, and if this is what those were like then Marcel can very much see why. 

Still, he soldiers on. 

He thinks, at one point, that he should see if Louis would want to come in and hang out with him while he’s working. Louis’ great to bounce ideas off of. He doesn’t come from the same base of knowledge as Marcel, but he’s been so open and receptive to new ideas. 

Open and receptive to  _ Marcel. _

Niall— Niall has been good too, of course. When Marcel’s shown up to pub nights he never feels like the third wheel in the friendship, and that’s— that’s great. But Marcel isn’t going to kid himself. What he has with Niall and what he has with Louis are radically different. 

Louis is— he’s something incredible.

Actually, Marcel definitely shouldn’t reach out and see if Louis wants to come into the office. He might be sick? This headache is bad enough, but he seems to have a stomach ache too. Has he been feeling this ill all day? Christ, if he has to call in sick to work tomorrow he might as well give it all up now, it’s not like anyone else would be able to make this presentation in his stead. 

Anyone… except Louis?

Louis might be willing.

Marcel’s thoughts feel jumbled together. He just told himself he wasn’t going to call Louis because he felt sick, but now maybe he should? Maybe that’s the right answer. Maybe he… something. Louis always knows what to do. He makes Marcel’s life better. 

Fumbling a little, Marcel pulls open his desk drawer and grabs his phone. It lights up when he holds it up and shows a large number of missed texts from Louis, just like he had hoped. The light also hurts his eyes, though, and he winces as he unlocks it and bypasses the messages to just call him. 

He doesn’t usually call Louis, but things feel… weird. He feels weird. He doesn’t want to type.

Louis doesn’t pick up on the first ring, or the second. But he picks up on the third, and just the sound of his voice is something  _ good, _ something soothing. 

_ “Hello? Marcel?” _

Marcel opens his mouth to reply, to say hello, to explain, and almost immediately finds himself turning to the bin next to his desk and vomiting into it. Shit. 

He hadn’t felt like vomiting just a second ago. He had felt bad, but not like  _ this. _

_ “Marcel?” _ Louis asks again, his voice small and tinny from where Marcel’s flung his phone onto his desk.  _ “Are you okay? Do you need help?” _

Marcel wipes at his lips, feeling gross and dizzy and achy. He picks up his phone again when he thinks he can take a breath to speak. “I’m sorry,” he says, grimacing at the smell. “That was… bad. I’m sorry. I’m… sick?”

_ “You sure sound like it,”  _ Louis says, sounding worried.  _ “Where are you? Are you at home?” _

“The office.” It suddenly comes back to Marcel, the reason for his call. “I have that presentation tomorrow, the one I was telling you about?” Oh no, he’s starting to feel nauseated again. “I was… I can’t be there, I don’t think.” Deep breaths, he wants to hold off vomiting again until he’s off the phone. “Can you— I mean. Would you be willing to make the presentation? If I gave you my materials?”

_ “Of course,” _ Louis comes back instantly.  _ “Shit, you shouldn’t be having to worry about this. You need to get home, I can’t believe you’re still in the office.” _

Marcel huffs out a weak laugh. “It’s important,” he protests. 

_ “Right, fine. I’m on my way, I’ll get your materials and  _ make _ you go home,” _ Louis says, and Marcel can hear the sounds of shuffling and footsteps on his end.  _ “I’ll be there soon. Drink some water and lay down on the floor or something.” _

“I’m not  _ dying,” _ Marcel protests weakly. “But… could you bring some paracetamol? I don’t keep any in my office.”

_ “Yeah, of course,” _ and Louis’ voice sounds soft. If Marcel wasn’t doing everything in his power to hold back being sick all over himself, he’d probably be blushing, storing that tone away in his heart to think about later.

As it is, though; “I— have to go.” Marcel taps the  _ end call _ button and is immediately sick into the bin again. 

— 

In the time it takes for Louis to apparently get all the way from wherever he was coming from — and God, Marcel didn’t even think to ask if he was  _ busy _ first — Marcel does find himself laying on the floor, the bin within arms’ reach. 

He feels  _ pathetic, _ how could he have gotten so ill so fast? Was it something he ate? Dizzy, and with a pounding headache, he tries to go over in his mind all of what he’s eaten in the last day or two. Toast, tea, coffee, a banana… He really hasn’t had much today. Did he even have lunch? No sushi, or dodgy street kabobs or anything. 

Whatever’s going on, he’s truly hoping that once he can get Louis the information and leave, he’ll be able to make it home without being sick all over the street. It may be a typical Manchester sight, but he’d still really rather not have to deal with the looks. Or ruin his sweater vest, which so far hasn’t sustained damage. 

It’s unclear how long before Louis arrives, but the telltale footsteps in the otherwise silent office push Marcel to sit up, carefully, and try to look slightly less pathetic (and less likely that he’s going to pass on whatever horrid illness this is). 

“Marcel?” Louis’ voice sounds from the other side of the door before he opens it. “Are you doing any better?” As he pushes open the door, Marcel can see him frown in confusion before looking down and catching sight of him sitting with his back up against the desk. “Christ, you look like shit. I can’t believe you’re still here.”

Some part of Marcel says,  _ but it’s okay because you’re here too. _ Another part of Marcel tells him he’s going to be sick again. A third and final part of him is just groaning in a haze of nausea though, so none of that is truly expressed. 

“I needed to,” Marcel says slowly, “finish the presentation. It’s  _ important.” _ He’s sure his breath stinks. Probably the whole office stinks, actually. “I’m sorry,” he says as an afterthought.

“Don’t apologise,” Louis says, leaving the door open behind him and walking forward to squat down next to him. “Just tell me what you need me to do and get  _ home. _ Or even, just give me your notes and I’ll figure it out. Have you taken your temperature?”

“Don’t exactly keep a thermometer in the office,” Marcel says. He really should. Why doesn’t his first-aid kit come with one? How ridiculous. 

Frowning, Louis puts the back of his hand to Marcel’s forehead. “You don’t seem like you have a fever,” he says. “Have you drunk anything?”

Marcel shakes his head. He’s feeling a bit less nauseated, possibly-maybe. The headache still pounds. 

“I’m going to go grab you a water from the break room and put the kettle on for tea. I think we still have a box of peppermint tea somewhere here.” Louis stands and Marcel wishes he wouldn’t, he feels dizzy just watching him. “I’ll be right back. You try to grab your work so you can show me exactly what you need and I can get you out of here and home.”

Marcel nods slightly as Louis leaves him to head to the break room, and attempts to stand. Louis’ left the door open again, which makes sense since there’s no one on the floor besides the two of them, but it’s still so weird to him. When Marcel had started working at Mod Mad, he’d learned that an open door meant he could hear a lot of conversations that he’d rather not hear — ones that he was the subject of. Keeping the door closed meant he could be who he wanted in peace, without fear of others looking in with unkind eyes. 

By the time Louis’ returned with a can of sparkling water in his hands, Marcel’s gotten himself seated in his office chair. He sees Louis’ expression as he enters the room and knows it’s likely from the smell coming from the bin that he’s shoved back under his desk. “Maybe we should go… somewhere else?” Louis asks, putting down the drink. “Actually, you know what we need? A candle. Also probably to go somewhere else, but a candle will help the smell when you get back to the office after taking  _ appropriate time off for being sick.” _ He eyes Marcel as if this directive was about to be questioned, but Marcel is honestly just pretty thankful that he’s going to have the chance to go home soon. 

“Do you keep candles in your office?” he asks, because that seems like the sort of thing that’s against fire codes. 

“I don’t,” Louis says. “But I have a lighter! That doesn’t really help us much if you don’t have a candle either, though. I didn’t think this through.”

Marcel reaches over and grabs the can of sparkling water. “You know who…  _ would _ have candles?” he says slowly. 

Louis raises an eyebrow. “I think you’re planning on asking me to steal from someone’s desk, and the answer is yes, absolutely.”

Marcel has to hold still for a moment as a wave of nausea washes over him. “Perrie,” he says. “Perrie definitely has candles at her desk. I don’t think they’ve ever been burned, I think they’re supposed to just be for decoration.”

“Well now they’re going to be for burning,” Louis says. “Hold on, I’ll grab the lighter out of my office and go raid her desk. I’ll be back.”

Marcel watches him leave again, and feels like his life is too good to be true. He sits and his head aches and his vision tilts slightly from dizziness and he feels like he’s going to be sick again very soon, but there is a boy who’s willing to be here with him and to help him get home. This time last year Marcel had accepted the fact that he would be in this alone until he gave up and left and had to start all over somewhere else, but— but Louis is here now, and things are different. Things are so very different.

He’s folding up the more important papers into his laptop, thinking he’ll just give it all to Louis and explain over text so he doesn’t have to force him to stay here any longer, Louis already knows a lot of the changes he wants to propose anyway, he’s been here and he’s listened and he’s believed in Marcel since the moment he first stepped through those doors. 

Marcel holds the can he’s drinking from to his temple and wills the headache away. He waits for Louis to arrive back from the upper floor where Perrie works, hopeful that she’ll have a candle with an actual scent and not just a plain decorative one. Maybe… Maybe he should talk to Louis. Have that talk that he dreams about having, admitting things that he’s afraid to even think. About how Louis’ been more than Marcel ever thought he deserved, and that everything in him makes Marcel want to just sit and watch him live. That there’s something about Louis that makes the whole world want to follow him anywhere, but especially Marcel. 

He stands and (slowly) takes his bin to the toilets, to at least get it away from his own office. He feels nauseated but doesn’t think he’s going to actually vomit again immediately. With careful, steady steps he makes his way back toward his own office, standing outside and letting it air out. 

Marcel wants to tell Louis that he would follow him to the end of the world and back. He wonders if Louis already knows. 

But not tonight. Once he’s better. He can ask Louis to meet him at the pub and he knows with confidence that Louis actually  _ will. _ Because Louis is the kind of person who is loyal to his people. And somehow, against all odds, Marcel has become his people. He has  _ made _ Marcel his people. 

Just when Marcel is beginning to think that Louis’ been searching for that candle for quite a long time, everything happens at once. 

A noise like an explosion, but louder than in the movies. A feeling like an earthquake, but stronger than Marcel imagined. A blazing heat that knocks him backward to the floor as the whole world seems to erupt in flames, billowing around him but primarily from his own office.

It feels like Marcel can’t breathe. He lays on his stomach and wretches onto the floor and gasps for air as he tries to orient himself. Everything feels urgent and everything feels impossible. There’s white hot heat surrounding him and laying on the floor feels like a mercy as smoke curls upward, thick against the ceiling. 

Louis.  _ Where is Louis? _

Marcel tries to yell for him, but his voice isn’t there, and instead he ends up coughing up bile. He has to— he has to get out of here. He has to find Louis. Is he still upstairs? Is he safe?

He crawls through the rows of cubicles toward the stairs, coughing and gasping as the world tilts from dizziness. He doesn’t let himself think about— about what could have happened to Louis. Louis has to be okay. He  _ has _ to be okay because there’s no other  _ option. _ It isn’t possible to go back to a life without Louis. That’s not what life is. 

His phone was in his office, so there’s no way to contact anyone. But one more row of desks - one more row of those  _ stupid, open-plan desks where everyone lives their happy lives and talks about Marcel like he’s lower than dirt, _ and the injustice of it all pushes him forward. The knowledge that Louis is  _ somewhere,  _ he  _ has to be somewhere, _ and Marcel  _ needs him _ , and as it feels like he’s coughing up a lung and is going to vomit again any moment, he makes it to the edge, the fire door leading to the stairs in sight. 

He lunges toward the door and puts a hand against it, not that that would do much good considering the blazing heat around him. Wrenching it open, a chute of cool air hits his face that leads the blazes behind him to surge forward. Marcel stumbles through, letting out a noise like a wounded animal as the fire licks against his arms. 

The door shuts heavily behind him, though, and the fire goes with it. The stairs are insufferably hot and there’s smoke in the air, but the flames are out of sight. Actually,  _ everything  _ is out of sight. The power’s gone out, and the only thing he can see is the glow of the emergency lights. 

Louis was above him, wasn’t he? He hadn’t made it down to their floor, was still on the floor where Perrie’s desk was. 

Everything in Marcel aches and screams in protest as he lurches up the stairs like a man possessed. Because Louis has to be okay. The only thing that matters is that Louis ends up okay. 

The steps are a mountain that he’s ill-equipped to scale, but Marcel has been reduced to tunnel vision and it could be either a thousand hours or mere seconds before he’s reaching the heavy door to the floor above. It’s hot to the touch but Marcel is past the point of thinking things through, and he pulls it open as his hand burns from the contact. 

There — there Louis is. Right on the other side of the door, laying as if thrown there. The whole floor is filled with thick, black smoke but it’s not quite low enough to reach Louis. He’s— he’s still breathing, right?

Marcel grabs onto Louis, any part he can reach, and drags him into the stairway like a child saving their favourite doll from the rain. Louis  _ has  _ to be okay because he has no other  _ choice _ , which means Marcel  _ needs to get him out of here. _

The door shuts behind them again and Marcel is thrown into darkness, on his knees with Louis’ unconscious form in his arms. He doesn’t move, doesn’t stir, but Marcel can’t think about that, won’t let himself think about that. The only thing he’s allowed to think about is the stairs, and getting down the stairs. 

He doesn’t really know what happens next. 

There’s a time when he’s carrying Louis cradled against his chest as he goes down the stairs on his bum. There’s a time where he has to catch Louis’ head before it hits against the wall. There’s a time where he has to stop and cough and vomit and cry, and there’s a time when he’s moving with Louis pressed against him all over again. There’s a time when he wonders if he’s too late, if it’s all too late. 

There’s a time where he remembers very little, besides the feeling of Louis heavy against him. 

And there’s a time when he remembers nothing at all. 

— 

_ “You’re Marcel, right?” _

_ Marcel looks up, and he recognizes the man looming over his desk. He’s looked at Marcel a lot the last few weeks, always when he thinks Marcel isn’t looking. He’s an older man, with greying hair and skin that looks like it’s been pushed and pulled about quite a bit, his eyes drooping a little from it all.  _

_ “I am!” Marcel says, trying to ignore the feeling in his stomach. “That’s me! You’re Simon, right? Head of the editorial department?” _

_ Marcel dreams about being editor in chief someday. When he gets there, that’s when he thinks he’ll really start to be able to make a difference. That’s when his opinions will be loud enough that people will have to listen. A sustainable fashion economy built on reuse and repair, style and fashion mixing in a way they haven’t in decades, that’s his dream. _

_ He’s just a content creator now, in charge of fluff pieces that will rarely make it into the magazine itself, just pasted on the site with titles that sound like clickbait. It’s okay. He’ll work his way up.  _

_ “You certainly seem excited to be here,” Simon says, and his smile looks more like a leer. But probably, Marcel is being too harsh. Men are under beauty standards just like women, especially in the fashion industry, and just because Simon’s clearly tried too hard to look young instead of age with grace doesn’t mean that he’s any less good of a person. _

_ “I try,” Marcel says with a smile. “It’s been my dream to work at a fashion magazine, can’t blame a man for being happy about achieving his ambition!” _

_ Simon laughs and it feels hollow. “Surely this isn’t as far as your ambition goes,” he says. “You must have grand plans!” He’s leaning forward against Marcel’s little desk, blocking out the lights above and throwing Marcel into shadow.  _

_ Marcel nods brightly. “Someday I’m going to make a difference in the fashion world,” he says. “I want to make a focus on sustainability.” _

_ A lot of people laugh at him when he starts talking about that. They say that the fashion industry is a lumbering giant too slow and steady to ever change, that he’s just one man in a country void of most of the large fashion houses. That his head is in the clouds. _

_ Simon smiles curiously at him, though. He doesn’t laugh. “That sounds noble,” he says. “And like just the sort of mind we need here. People focused on the future and what it’ll take to get there.” _

_ “You think so?” Marcel asks, his eyes shining. Is Simon on his side? Truly? Does he have a powerful ally in this war against fast fashion? _

_ “Of course I do!” Simon says, his voice booming in a way that makes others at surrounding desks look up and over at him. “In fact, I’d love to discuss your plans later, maybe give you some ideas for your timeline and how you could get there. My office is on the seventh floor of this building, how about you stop by after six today? I should be free, then.” _

_ Marcel’s shift ends at five, like most of the people here, and as it’s the off-season there won’t be a lot of people staying around to finish up their work. He’s told that when the Spring fashion lines start to drop, people are here until ten or later, but so far it’s been a steady, thrumming nine-to-five workplace.  _

_ Still, “I’d love to,” he says. He can kill time until six, polish up his ideas and career goals.  _

_ Simon nods, clearly satisfied with that answer. “Well Marcel, it was lovely to talk with you. I’ll see you up in my office at six, and maybe we can talk about making a difference.” _

_ Marcel nods, delighted, and as Simon walks off he dives back into his work with gusto. How wonderful, to have landed at Mod Mag UK, a place where the people at the top seem to actually care about their workers.  _

_ —  _

_ Marcel knocks on the door and Simon tells him to come in. He tells him to sit down. He pours him a glass of water and tells him to speak about everything on his mind.  _

_ Marcel does, and he talks and talks, and waves his hands around to illustrate his points. He doesn’t notice at first, how little Simon seems to care.  _

_ He doesn’t notice until Simon puts a hand on his leg, because Marcel pauses then. Unsure. But Simon tells him to keep talking, so Marcel does. He talks a little quieter, and Simon’s hand moves up his thigh a little. Marcel tries to inch away, but Simon’s hand squeezes and Marcel doesn’t move at all. He doesn’t move because he’s scared. His voice wavers.  _

_ “You know,” Simon says. “I have connections that you can only dream of, and I can get you where you want to go. We just have to have a little exchange of services.” _

_ Marcel stutters.  _

_ Simon’s hand is still creeping up his thigh. _

_ This isn’t how this is supposed to work. This is something that you hear about happening to someone else. This isn’t— what is Marcel supposed to  _ do? _ He’s sure that whatever services Simon is talking about aren’t the kind of services that Marcel wants to give. Not to— not to this man, who’s watched him from a distance and introduced himself just today and now is trying to come onto him like— like he can just trade a good job for, what, a blow job? Something more? _

_ “I don’t—” Marcel says, and Simon’s hand squeezes his thigh again.  _

_ “I know you’re someone going places,” Simon says, exuding confidence, like he has the upper hand. He  _ does _ have the upper hand. “I just want to help you get there.” _

_ He sounds so insincere that Marcel feels like he’s going to vomit. His sister has talked about men doing this, but Marcel never expected it to happen to  _ him.

_ He never expected to have to make the choice, of whether to trade his dignity for a higher title. A pay raise and a chance to make a difference. _

_ Is it worth it? _

_ What if he’s actually able to make a difference? _

_ It’s not like he’s dating anyone now. It’s wouldn’t be cheating, it would just be— _

_ Dirty. _

_ It’d be dirty. _

_ And Marcel would regret it. Probably for the rest of his life. He’d know that by giving in he was paving the way for others to get away with the same. He’d be jumping over other people who deserve the things that he’d be getting.  _

_ And, Simon would probably do this again. With someone else who didn’t feel like they could say no. _

_ Marcel doesn’t feel like he can say no. _

_ But he has to. _

_ Because some things are important for the greater good. _

_ He grabs the glass of water that Simon so carefully poured for him, and flings his hand, watching the water pour out and all over Simon’s white shirt.  _

_ He lets go of Marcel’s thigh, yelling something that Marcel doesn’t stop to understand, because he’s up and out of that chair and running from the office.  _

_ He’s  _ not _ going to let this go. If Simon is doing this because he’s looked at Marcel’s clothes and thought he was an outcast, an easy target, he’s  _ wrong.

_ Marcel files a complaint with HR first thing in the morning, makes himself as loud as possible, shows he will not under any circumstances back down. He’s able to get the CCTV footage to back up his story. _

_ Simon is quietly dismissed.  _

_ Marcel is offered a position that he would have had to climb the ladder for years for, all the way out in Manchester.  _

_ He takes it, feels a bit like it’s not exactly okay, a bit of a bribe, but he’ll put it to good use. He’ll make the best out of a bad situation.  _

_ It’s just, Simon had friends in high places. _

_ Friends who spread rumors of Marcel as if he were the one approaching Simon. As if he backed him to the wall and framed him. As if he were all the evil that Simon ended up being. _

_ Simon had friends in high places. _

_ And Simon got to them first. _


	7. Part 6 - Gemels

Gemels

[ geh- **mel** ] - _noun_

Two trees whose trunks, branches or roots have grown together to become one.

* * *

Louis can’t remember what happened. 

It’s scary, knowing that so much time passed unaccounted for.

He remembers being with Marcel. He remembers going upstairs for the candle, and searching through Perrie’s office, trying not to disturb things so she wouldn’t get too mad when she realised later what he had taken (not that he would confess if she didn’t ask). He remembers… 

He remembers heading back toward the stairs, candle and lighter in hand. He remembers sparking the lighter, absentmindedly.

That’s the last thing he truly remembers.

There’s snippets in his mind of flames licking against his skin, of white hot heat surrounding him. The knowledge that he’d ended up at some point pressed against the floor. The inability to move, to breathe. But most of that is just darkness. 

There’s also, possibly, the feeling of arms around him— of someone else there with him. But he’s probably imagining that. 

He  _ knows, _ roughly, what happened. 

The doctor who came into his room not too long after he’d woken up in a hospital bed alone and confused, had given a thorough explanation of what had gone down, according to what the authorities had figured out. There had been a carbon monoxide leak, he said. Investigations were still being done, but it looked like it had been a slow leak from a single break in a pipe that had been going on for quite a while. Louis’ lighter was just the spark it needed to set the whole building aflame. 

_ Marcel.  _ Louis’ mind had started racing. “My friend— my coworker was in there with me,” he had choked out, coughing between words, his throat raw. “He— Marcel? Was he…?”

Nodding, the doctor offered Louis a reassuring smile. “He’s recovering as well,” he said. “You two made a frankly incredible escape. They found both of you in the stairwell two floors up. He suffered more carbon monoxide poisoning, but your body seems to have been dealt a worse blow with smoke inhalation.” He shook his head. “The fact that both of you are awake and talking now is some sort of miracle, you should count your blessings. That building won’t be inhabitable for a long time.”

After the doctor had left and new pain medication had been fed into his I.V., Louis had begun searching news articles on the tablet that the hospital had lent him. He flipped through story after story about the fire, how it had apparently taken all night to be put out. The building was still standing, but it looked like smoke had billowed out of every window, destroying much of the inside. Christ, his whole office was just  _ gone. _

Then he had googled  _ carbon monoxide poisoning, _ and it was like puzzle pieces clicking into place. There’s a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach, remembering how ill Marcel had been. The headache he had complained of, the vomiting.

But the doctor said he was awake. He was here too and he was  _ alive, _ and  _ awake. _

Everything in Louis wanted to  _ find him, _ to  _ go to him. _ But his body disagreed— his arm, still with a needle sticking out of it (that he was trying desperately not to look at). His whole body sore, with patches of bubbling, red skin from where the fire had apparently gotten too close. 

He wasn’t in any shape to go searching for Marcel. Yet.

Instead, he spent the next few hours contacting family and friends through social media on the loaned tablet, letting them know he was alive and (relatively) well. He had to talk to nurses who come in to change his bandages, and to the doctor who comes in to further assess the smoke damage. He was contacted by a police inspector who arranged to meet with him later to go over what’s happened. He slept a little, sometimes. 

Throughout all of this his mind kept drifting doggedly back to Marcel, somewhere else in this building. Was he truly okay? 

— 

The sun sets about six hours after Louis had initially woken up, natural light from the windows getting replaced with harsh fluorescent ceiling lights. 

He feels achy all over, sore like he’s run a marathon and then gotten pushed down the stairs. But a nurse has recently switched out his I.V. for pain medication to be taken with water, and while it’s certainly not as effective, Louis’ grateful. It leaves him free to use the toilet without worrying about tugging something loose, and more importantly it means he’s not tied to his own room any more, and can look slightly less suspicious if he plans on sneaking out.

Also, the medication he’s taking seems like it might be doing happy things. It seems like very strong stuff. 

He totally plans on sneaking out.

**Louis:** _ Niall I need your help _

**Nall:** _ You were in a life and death scenario less than twenty four hours ago this better not be dangerous _

**Louis:** _ Shut up _ _  
_ **Louis:** _ I need you to phone the hospital and figure out Marcel’s room number _

**Niall:** _ Uh _ _  
_ **Niall:** _ You’re literally in the hospital with him _

**Louis:** _ They want me to rest and shit _ _  
_ **Louis:** _ They’re not telling me _

**Niall:** _ Because you SHOULD be fucking resting _ _  
_ **Niall:** _ I’m sure he’s not allowed visitors who aren’t family _

**Louis:** _ Say you’re arranging for flowers or something _ _  
_ **Louis:** _ Come on _ _  
_ **Louis:** _ Mate _ _  
_ **Louis:** _ I’ll owe you  _

**Niall:** _ Stop fucking texting me I’m on the PHONE _

**Niall:** _ And u DO owe me _ _  
_ **Niall:** _ Room 316 _ _  
_ **Niall:** _ Now DON’T BE AN IDIOT _

**Louis:** _ Love u Niall _

As a teenager, Louis snuck out of his house a handful of times. Most of them were times he’s pretty sure his mum would have been fine with, had she known, but he had wanted to feel cool. Cool kids snuck out of the house.

However, sneaking out the window as a teenager, it turns out, is very different than sneaking out of a hospital room. For one, as a teen he wore skinny jeans and a hoodie. As an adult suffering mild third degree burns, he’s not showered in two days and is wearing only a hospital gown. It’s not as glamorous, and honestly a bit too revealing for his tastes.

Marcel’s room is the floor below him, and Louis is thankful for the very accessible lift next to the stairs, because he’s not sure how well he’d be able to handle the stairs, especially while trying to stay under the radar and not attract the attention of any nurses. 

He tries to act confident coming out of the lift, scanning the room numbers as he walks by. 

_ 328… 322… 318… _

316.

He pushes the door open slowly. The room is dim inside. The overhead lights are off, the only light is the warm glow coming from the bedside lamp.

Louis makes his way in, giving a moment for his eyes to adjust. 

The bed is occupied, and Louis walks forward cautiously. He takes in Marcel’s form, the matching hospital gown, the purple bags under his closed eyes, his usually immaculately styled hair stringy and loose and dark around his face. 

He’s asleep, head lolling to the side, mouth parted slightly. Louis knows that he’s been through the same ordeal, the same pain, but like this Marcel looks peaceful. He looks roughed up but he looks  _ okay. _

Louis doesn’t want to wake him. But he doesn’t want to go back to his room yet. Gazing at him now, something in his heart calms. The knowledge that Marcel is safe. 

Marcel’s been through so much. He hasn’t been  _ safe _ in a long time. 

Making his way carefully to the far side of the bed, Louis sits down in the visitor’s chair. It’s plush, the red and blue pattern on it making the chair look dated, like something out of the nineties. 

Adjusting his posture until he’s comfortable but sure he’s not going to accidentally flash any passing nurses with his gown, he leans his head against the back of the chair and watches Marcel breathe, slowly, steadily. He wonders what Marcel’s thought about since he woke up. Wonders what he remembers from yesterday. 

Wonders if he’s ever going to get to do the presentation he had been working so hard for. 

Louis thinks and wonders and watches and in the glow of the lamp his eyes begin to droop. He’s in pain still, warm all over like he’s been sunburned, and his arms are starting to itch under their bandages. But being next to Marcel he’s settled and calm. 

Everything else can wait for later. 

— 

_ “Louis!” _

Louis startles awake with a groan, a crick in his neck and a pain, well, everywhere. He scrunches up his face as he blinks his eyes open, blurry from waking up too fast. 

Marcel is awake and looking at him with wide eyes. 

“What are you  _ doing  _ here?” he asks. He’s leaning forward, resting on his elbows. 

“I was—” Louis coughs, tries to make it seem graceful, into his arm. “Was waiting for you to wake up.”

Marcel’s eyebrows knit together. “You… Why?”

Louis frowns. “Because I was worried about you,” he says, hating how small and uncertain his voice sounds. He and Marcel are past this point. 

“No,” Marcel says, clearly backpedaling. “I mean, you’re hurt! You should be in bed! You look, well…” he grimaces. 

Louis smiles. “I,” he announces (and stops to cough), “am on heavy pain medication.”

Marcel snorts. “I’m sure you are,” he says. “I think I am too.”

“You  _ should be,” _ Louis says. “You were  _ poisoned!” _

“I inhaled a lot of toxic gas,” Marcel hedges. “I don’t know whether that counts as  _ poisoned.” _

“Depends on if it was on purpose or not,” Louis says, and he  _ wasn’t _ serious, not really. It was a lighthearted joke to try to bring humour into a very dark situation. But the way Marcel’s face darkens when he says it makes Louis question what he’s just said.

“You don’t think it was on purpose, do you…?” he asks.

“Absolutely not,” Marcel is quick to negate. “I— That would be ridiculous. And so self-centred. To think that such a terrible accident happened just because of  _ me.” _

Louis reaches out and brushes the back of his hand against Marcel’s. “Have the police asked you about that possibility?” he asks. 

Marcel looks down at his knees. “Yeah,” he says. “There was CCTV footage of something, apparently. They wouldn’t tell me exactly what.”

“Holy  _ shit,” _ breathes Louis. 

“But it could be nothing! Or a coincidence! It couldn’t be, I mean…” 

Louis unfolds his legs and stands, leaning against Marcel’s bed. “Move over,” he says. 

“What?” Marcel looks up at him, startled.

“Move  _ over,  _ I’m coming in,” Louis says, and as Marcel hurriedly scoots to one side, up against the plastic armrest, Louis groans as his backside hits the bed. He’s pretty sure when he fell after the blast it was mostly onto his bum. “There,” he says. 

“Um,” says Marcel.

“This way, you don’t have to worry about me being out of bed,” Louis says. “And I don't have to worry about you being left alone in case some psychopath comes after you.” 

He decides that if this backfires, he can just blame the medication. But he’s pretty certain that that’s not actually playing that large of a factor. 

Feeling brave because he’s already come this far, Louis reaches for Marcel’s hand under his own and grasps it tightly. “This okay?” he asks, before unsexily coughing into his (other) elbow. 

“Yeah,” Marcel says.

_ “Good.” _ Louis closes his eyes. “Do you want to talk about what happened now? Or later?”

Marcel pauses long enough that Louis opens his eyes again. “Later, I think,” he says tentatively.

“That’s fine,” Louis squeezes his hand. “I’m going to sleep for a bit, before a nurse comes in here and gets mad at me, okay?”

Marcel’s laugh is jarringly loud and makes Louis giggle along with him. That makes his muscles ache. He breathes out and shifts until he’s comfortable. 

It’s probably the meds, the reason he falls asleep so fast under Marcel’s watchful eye. 

— ० — 

The temporary building that Mod Mag Manchester has been relocated to is small and old and has way too much concrete in it for Louis’ liking. 

After two weeks away from work to recover, he feels especially out of place not even returning to the same building. His desk is just out in the open with all the others now, a generic work laptop sitting there since the one he had been using is definitely unusable by now. 

He sees the way everyone looks at him as he passes by. His arms are a little rough, a little patchy, and there’s a scrape all down his cheek that even some foundation courtesy of his sister’s stash couldn’t properly cover up (and oh, they are  _ not _ the same shade - he really should have just bought his own). 

Still, it’s probably not even the way he looks so much as that word has  _ certainly _ gotten around why he needed the two weeks off. It’s not a hard thing to connect, what with the entire building going up in flames at the same moment he took two weeks of disaster pay. 

There’s been a handful of  _ get well _ texts, a few half-hearted invitations to pub nights, but mostly his phone has been occupied by Niall, Marcel, and a barrage of messages from his family telling him he needs to come home more. 

Well, they’re unfortunately probably not going to get their wish any time soon. He does feel a little guilty about that. 

Louis sits down at his desk and logs into the laptop just long enough to print off a letter from his Google Drive. He heads to the communal printer (at least he can locate it by the loud whirring that starts up) and pulls the paper off before anyone else can snoop a look at it.

**Louis:** _ Where’s your office now? _

**Perrie:** _ Northeast corner, its the one with the sign on the door that says DO NOT DISTURB UNDER ANY CIRCUMSTANCES _

Ah, there it is.

Louis strides in without knocking. 

“I’m glad you’re recovered but you’re terribly rude,” Perrie says. 

“You missed me.” Louis grins. “My sparkling personality and quick wit.”

“I will admit to nothing,” she says. “Now, what do you need? We’re behind deadline and the new collections are dropping any minute now.”

“I’m here to be the bearer of bad news,” Louis says, pushing his sheet across her desk. 

Perrie picks it up and reads the two lines he typed out. “Did you really have to waste printer ink on this?” She asks.

Louis shrugs. “It’s only polite.”

“I knew you were quitting as soon as I heard about Marcel’s new job,” she said, pushing the paper back toward him. “And I’ve heard  _ rumours _ of what your new position is.”

“Turns out being a close friend of the new managing editor of Runway U.K. has some perks,” Louis says. 

“Close friend, huh?” says Perrie. “Honestly if I believed you I’d be a bit disappointed in that sentence.”

Louis laughs goodnaturedly, and Perrie shifts in her seat. 

“I’ve read the articles,” she says, her tone growing serious. “Is it true about him and Simon?”

“I think you can figure out the answer to that on your own,” Louis says. 

“Tell him I’m sorry?” Perrie asks. “It was bad, here. We were shit people. I’m glad he’s getting out.”

“I’d rather you tell him yourself,” Louis says. “But if he asks, I’ll mention it.”

“Right,” says Perrie, and she smiles in a way that doesn’t reach her eyes. “Well, I hate to say it, but I don’t think you have a lot to pack up from your desk.” She holds her hand out. “It was a pleasure working with you, Louis Tomlinson.”

Louis shakes her hand. “Keep an eye out for Marcel,” he says. “He’s going places.”

He waves at everyone as he leaves, at Nick and Jeff and Camille. He doesn’t mention that he’s not coming back. News will spread quick enough.

— 

“Are you ready yet?” Marcel calls from the front seat of their rented van as Louis carries his last bag out from his now empty flat. 

“Almost!”

Louis slings the bag into the footspace of the passenger side before using his arms to boost himself up onto his seat. Sitting in a moving van makes him feel incredibly giant and mighty, taller than everyone else on the road. 

Clifford is already in the small bench behind them, his breath warm and moist and gross in Louis’ ear.

“Maybe I should buy a car this height,” he says, bucking his seatbelt. 

“I  _ just _ spent last night talking about the harm that new cars do to our ecosystem—” Marcel starts, and Louis laughs, bending over and giving him a kiss.

“You sure did,” he said. “I suppose if we’re living in London I might not have need for something that big.”

“I should hope not,” Marcel says, turning the key in the ignition. 

Louis laughs at him again, putting his feet up on the dashboard as Marcel pulls the van onto the road, leaving his little flat behind. 

He’s never made a life decision so quickly before, didn’t think that a time would come when he was packing up all of his belongings in the space of a month to make a move with a brand new boyfriend. 

Marcel asked Louis out, tentatively, two days after they were both discharged from the hospital.

Louis took Marcel on a date to the Manchester Bird Sanctuary two days later. It was while they were there, holding hands with confidence, that Marcel had gotten the call that they had arrested Simon under suspicion of attempted homicide. 

Which, while the best news Louis may have ever heard, did put a damper on their first date.

The second date he took Marcel on, three days later, was to Dunham Massey, in the hopes of seeing more wildlife. That date was interrupted by a call from Runway U.K. Louis threw up his hands in frustration, but worked to rage silently so as to not interrupt the phone call.

When Marcel got off the phone, he looked at Louis in wonder.

“They offered me a position,” he said, eyes wide.

Louis blinked at him. “What position?” he asked.

“I didn’t—” Marcel frowned. “Managing Editor?”

“Fuck,” said Louis. “You said yes, didn’t you?”

“I— I said I had to think about it.”

“Why?” Louis looked at him aghast.

“Well, I mean,” Marcel looked at him hopelessly. “They’re in London. And you’re not.”

Oh.

“Marcel,” Louis said, putting on his most serious tone. “I need you to call them back. And I need you to accept the position. I am compact and travel sized.”

“You—” Marcel gaped at him. “You can’t just move to London!”

“I can so,” Louis says. “Just try to stop me.”

“I couldn’t ask you to do that. We’ve been dating a week!”

“It’s been a good week. And you’re not asking me, I’m telling you.”

“What if… What if we break up? And then you’re in London?”

“Then I will tell you that you are being an idiot and to take me back, and if worse comes to worse I call Niall and tell him to let me move in with him,” Louis says. Sure, he and Marcel had been dating for only a week, but it had been  _ LouisandMarcel _ for longer than that. And Marcel absolutely could not pass up an opportunity from such a well known fashion magazine. Not after everything he’d gone through. 

So, on the third date Louis took Marcel on, they took the train down to London to look at flats. 

It was the most romantic date by far, because Louis spent the whole time getting pulled along the streets by Marcel, flats practically ignored, as he chattered on about the wonders of pigeons living their lives in the big city. 

“These are the descendants of pedigree pigeons,” Marcel told him over and over again, “Pigeons that were specially trained carrier pigeons. They were our house pets and bred for their beauty  _ oh Louis look at that one look at the iridescence in her feathers.” _

Louis took a lot of pictures, to Marcel’s chagrin, not of the pigeons but of Marcel’s face as he watched the pigeons. This was the Marcel that Louis had always hoped to see. This was Marcel truly happy. 

As they sit side by side in the moving van, their every item packed up in the back, Louis thinks about that Marcel. He thinks about a Marcel unburdened by fear and free to be himself. He thinks about a Marcel able to talk for hours about the things that he loves, his eyes lighting up as he does so and not growing insecure that others are becoming bored. 

Contrary to what Louis told Perrie, Marcel did not get him a job at Runway U.K. That would be ridiculous. But Louis has an interview in the coming week for a small fashion house specializing in sustainable unisex clothing and looking to expand into an activewear line. Louis has high hopes for that job, but even if he doesn’t get it, there are more opportunities out there.

And there’s the smile on Marcel’s face to come home to every day. The happiness in his eyes. The chance at a new start.

(The pigeon house that Louis has secretly ordered to be sent to their new address).

They’ll be alright. 

— 

**Niall:** _ This isn’t fair _ _  
_ **Niall:** _ I’m going to have to move to fucking London now aren’t I _

**Louis:** _ You don’t have to? We can come visit? _

**Marcel:** _ It’s really not that far, I promise I won’t keep him here against his will _

**Niall:** _ No, I’m gonna _ _  
_ **Niall:** _ I’ve already accepted a position at a private school two streets over from your flat _ _  
_ **Niall:** __ I’m not giving you bitches the chance to miss me

**Author's Note:**

> Fic post [here](https://londonfoginacup.tumblr.com/post/619178787022798848/you-left-all-your-dreams-on-the-threshing-floor) if you're into that sort of thing!


End file.
